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Call  No.  ^-2-1  *  1  |  Accession  No.    \  (s)  ^  k  1  Ji"^ 

Authoi . 

This  book  should  be  returnedyt  n  or  before  the  ciat^  last   marked   below. 

















Edited  from  the  manuscripts 

textual  and  critical  notes 






Oxford  University  Press,  Amen  House,  London  E.G.  4 


Geoffrey  Cumberlege,  Publisher  to  the  University 



Tins  volume,  comprising  the  remainder  of  Wordsworth's  shorter 
poems,  contains  a  considerable  proportion  of  his  later  work, 
notably  the  Evening  Voluntaries — perhaps  the  best  example  of 
his  mature  style,  Memorials  of  the  Tour  of  1833,  and  two  late 
Sonnet-sequences ;  but  also  some  of  his  most  characteristic  early 
work  in  Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflection  and  Poems  referring  to 
the  Period  of  Old  Age.  The  great  Ode,  Intimations  of  Immortality 
&c.,  stands  significantly  at  the  end. 

Appendix  A  gives  the  surviving  portions  of  his  translations  of 
Virgil,  of  which  only  a  fragment  has  hitherto  been  published; 
Appendix  B  contains  Poems  and  Verses  of  various  periods,  either 
never  printed  by  Wordsworth  or  rrot  included  in  his  final  edition 
of  1849-50.  I  have  reserved  unpublished  passages  of  blank  verse 
which  have  kinship  with  The  Prelude  and  The  Excursion  for  the 
Appendix  to  Vol.  V  which  will  contain  The  Excursion. 

In  following  Wordsworth's  final  text  I  have  made  a  few  correc- 
tions, in  most  cases  supported  by  the  manuscripts :  vide  Poems  of 
Sentiment  and  Reflection,  XXVI,  46  (p.  98) ;  Sonnets  upon  the 
Punishment  of  Death,  I,  10  (p.  135) ;  Miscellaneous  Poems,  VII,  27 
(p.  161) ;  The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale,  28  (p.  218) ;  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  118  arid  138  (p.  232).  But  the  most  important  emenda- 
tion, sanctioned  by  Wordsworth's  own  hand,  is  in  the  Ode, 
Intimations  of  Immortality  at  line  69  (vide  text  p.  281  and  note 
p.  466). 

I  am  indebted  to  Professor  H.  W.  Garrod  and  Professor  D. 
Nichol  Smith  for4 -help  in  tracing  the  Latin  verses  ascribed  to 
T.  Warton  (Appendix  B.  VIII). 

I  wish  to  express  my  gratitude  to  Mr.  E.  H.  W.  Meyerstein  for 
his  generosity  in  trusting  me  with  the  Longman  manuscript  of 
Poems  of  1807  for  prolonged  study.  Finally  I  tender  my  warm 
thanks  to  my  friend,  Sir  Humphrey  Milford,  for  lending  his  expert 
eye  to  the  scrutiny  of  my  proofs. 

H.  D. 
Julij  1947. 


W.  or  W.  W.  William  Wordsworth. 

D.  W.  Dorothy  Wordsworth. 
Dora  W.  Dora  Wordsworth. 

M.  H.  or  M.  W.  Mary  Wordsworth. 

S.  H,  Sara  Hutchinson. 

H.  C.  R.  Henry  Crabb  Robinson. 

E.  Q.  Edward  Quillinan. 

M .  Memoirs  of  W.  W.,  by  Christopher  Wordsworth. 
E.L.  The  Early  Letters  of  W.  W.  and  D.  W.   Oxford,  1935. 
M.Y.  The  Letters  of  W.  W.  and  D.  W.  Middle  Years  (1806-1820), 

2  vols.   Oxford,  1937. 
L.Y.    The  Letters  of  W.  W.  and  D.  W.  Later  Years  (1821-50),  3 

vols.   Oxford,  1939. 
C.R.    The  Correspondence  of  Henry  Crabb  Robinson  with  the 

Wordsworth  Circle,  ed.  Edith  J.  Morley,  1927. 
I.  P.   The  notes  dictated  by  W.  W.  to  Isabella  Fenwick  in  1843. 
O.E.D.  The  Oxford  English  Dictionary. 
L.B.  Lyrical  Ballads,  1798,  1800,  1802,  1805. 
1807.  Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  1807. 
Vol.  of  1835.    Yarrow  Revisited  and  other  Poems. 
Vol.  of  1842.  Poems  chiefly  of  Early  and  Late  Years. 
1815,  1820,  &c.  Collective  editions  published  in  1815,  1820,  &c. 
K.  Professor  William  Knight,  editor  of  W.  W.'s  Poetical  Works, 

8  vols.    1896. 
Dowden.   Professor  Edward  Dowden,  editor  of  W.  W.'s  Poetical 

Works,  7  vols.    1892-3. 
Hutchinson.    Mr.   Thomas  Hutchinson,   editor  of  the   Oxford 

Wordsworth,  The  Lyrical  Ballads  (1798)  1898,  and  the  Poems 

in  Two  Volumes  (1807)  1897. 
L.  Longman  M SS.  Manuscripts  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  (1800-5)  and 

of  Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  1807,  formerly  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 

T.  Norton  Longman,  now  in  that  of  Mr.  E.  H.  W.  Meyerstein. 
C.    Variants  from  a  copy  of  W.'s  Poetical  Works,  1836-7,  for- 
merly in  the  possession  of  Lord  Coleridge,  used  by  W.  for 

correction  and  re-drafting  of  his  text,  now  in  the  Royal  Library 

at  Windsor. 
MS.  M.   A  manuscript  of  Poems  included  for  the  most  part  to 

Poems  in  Two  Volumes,  1807,  transcribed  probably  in  March, 

1804,  v.  E.  de  S.,  The  Prelude,  p.  xx. 


MS.  101.  A  large  folio  note-book  in  use  from  1820  onwards,  in 
which  poems  have  been  transcribed  by  D.  W.,  M.  W.,  S.  H.,  and 
Dora  W.,  and  in  which  W.  himself  has  written  drafts  of  poems 
in  process  of  composition.  It  has  been  possible  to  deduce  iden- 
tity of  date  for  certain  poems  on  the  same  or  adjacent  pages 
from  similarity  of  ink  and  handwriting  and  the  placing  and 
sequence  of  drafts. 

MS.  92.  A  quarto  note-book  containing  transcriptions  of  Poems 
intended  for  the  Poems  chiefly  of  Early  and  Late  Years,  published 
in  1842. 

MS.  1,  MS.  2,  &c.,  in  Apparatus  Criticus  indicate  variants  from 
first  draft,  second  draft,  &c.,  of  manuscript  text  of  the  particular 

[  ]  indicates  a  word  or  words  missing  from  the  manuscript. 
Words  enclosed  in  [  ]  represent  a  reading  from  another  MS. 
or  printed  text:  words  enclosed  in  (  )  a  reading  from  the 
same  MS. 

17/18  lines  found  in  a  manuscript  or  printed  text  between  line  17 

and  line  18. 



Criticus  AND  NOTES  .  .  .  .  vi 


I.  Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose  .  .          1 

II.  On  a  high  Part  of  the  Coast  of  Cumberland  .          2 

III.  By  the  Sea-side    .....          3 

IV.  Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life    .  .  .4 
V.  By  the  Side  of  Rydal  Mere             .              .              .5 

VI.  Soft  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge — the  Mere          .          7 

VII.  The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak -crowned  hill  .          8 

VIII.  The  sun  has  long  been  set  .  .  .9 

IX.  Composed    upon    an    Evening    of    extraordinary 
Splendour  and  Beauty      .  .  .  .10 

X.  Composed  by  the  Sea-shore  .  .  .13 

XI.  The  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love         .  .14 

XII.  To  the  Moon.    Composed  by  the  Seaside, — on  the 

Coast  of  Cumberland         .  .  .  *  14 

XIII.  To  the  Moon  (Rydal)         .  .  .  .16 

XIV.  To  Lucca  Giordano  .  .  .  .18 
XV.  Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high     .        18 

XVI.  Where  lies  the  truth  ?  has  Man,  in  wisdom's  creed       19 


I.  Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels !  that  have  grown  .        20 

II.  Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through 

this  Isle   .  .  .  .  .  .20 

III.  They  called  Thee  MEKRY  ENGLAND,  in  old  time  .        21 

IV.  To  the  River  Greta,  near  Keswick  .  .21 

V.  To  the  River  Derwent       .               .               .  .22 
VI.  In  Sight  of  the  Town  of  Cockermouth       .  .        22 

VII.  Address  from  the  Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle     .        23 

VIII.  Nun's  Well,  Brigham        .  .  .  .23 

IX.  To  a  Friend.    On  the  Banks  of  the  Derwent  .        24 

X.  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.   (Landing  at  the  Mouth  of 

the  Derwent,  Workington)  .  .  .24 

XL  Stanzas  suggested  in  a  Steamboat  off  Saint  Bees' 

Heads,  on  the  Coast  of  Cumberland  .  .        25 


XII.  In  the  Channel,  between  the  Coast  of  Cumberland 

and  the  Isle  of  Man  .  .  .  .30 

XIII.  At  Sea  off  the  Isle  of  Man  .  .  .31 

XIV.  Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recal  ?  .  .31 
XV.  On  entering  Douglas  Bay,  Isle  of  Man       .  .        32 

XVI.  By  the  Sea-shore,  Isle  of  Man       .              .  .32 

XVII.  Isle  of  Man            .              .              .              .  .33 

XVIII.  Isle  of  Man           .              .              .              .  .33 

XIX.  By  a  retired  Mariner  (A  Friend  of  the  Author)  .        34 

XX.  At  Bala-Sala,  Isle  of  Man  (Supposed  to  be  written 

by  a  friend)  .  .  .  ,  .34 

XXI.  Tynwald  Hill        .  .  .  .  .35 

XXII.  Despond  who  will  —  /  heard  a  voice  exclaim         .        35 

XXIII.  In  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  Ailsa  Crag  (during  an  Eclipse 

of  the  Sun,  July  17)  .  .  .  .36 

XXIV.  On  the  Frith  of  Clyde  (In  a  Steamboat)    .  .        36 
XXV.  On  revisiting  Dunolly  Castle          .              .  .37 

XXVI.  The  Dimolly  Eagle  .  .  .  .37 

XXVII.  Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Macpherson's  Ossian  .        38 

XXVIII.  Cave  of  Staffa       .  .  .  .  .40 

XXIX.  Cave  of  Staffa  (After  the  Crowd  had  departed)      .        40 

XXX.  Cave  of  Staffa       .  .  .  .  .41 

XXXI.  Flowers  on  the  Top  of  the  Pillars  at  the  Entrance 

of  the  Cave  .  .  .  .  .41 

XXXII.  lona          .  .  .  .  .  .42 

XXXIII.  lona  (Upon  Landing)        .  .  .  .42 

XXXIV.  The  Black  Stones  of  lona               .              .  .43 
XXXV.  Homeward  we  turn.   Isle  of  Columba's  Cell  .        43 

XXXVI.  Greenock :  per  me  si  va  nella  Citta  dolente  .        44 

XXXVII.  6  c  There ! ' '  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride       44 

XXXVIII.  The  Kiver  Eden,  Cumberland        .  .  .45 

XXXIX.  Monument  of  Mrs.  Howard  (by  Nollekens),  in 
Wetheral  Church,  near  Corby,  on  the  Banks  of  the 
Eden  .  .  .  .  .  .45 

XL.  Suggested  by  the  foregoing  .  .  .46 

XLI.  Nunnery  .  .  .  .  .  .46 

XLII.  Steamboats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways         .  .        47 

XLIII.  The  Monument  commonly  called  Long  Meg  and 

her  Daughters,  near  the  River  Eden          .  .       47 

,  XLIV.  Lowther  .  .  .  .  .  .48 

XLV.  To   the  earl   of  Lonsdale.    "Magistratus  indicat 

virum"    .  .  .  .  .  .49 


XLVL  The  Somnambulist  .  .  .  .49 

XL VII.  To  Cordelia  M— ,  Hallsteads,  Ullswater  .       54 

XL VIII.  Most  sweet  it  is  with  umiplifted  eyes         .  .       54^ 


I.  Expostulation  and  Reply  .  .  .66 

II.  The  Tables  Turned:  an  Evening  Scene  on  the  same 

Subject    .  .  .  .  .  .57 

III.  Lines  written  in  early  Spring         .  .  .58 

IV.  A  Character          .  .  .  .  .58 
V.  To  my  Sister         .              .               .              .  .59 

VI.  Simon  Lee  the  Old  Huntsman,  with  an  Incident  in 

which  he  was  concerned   .  .  .  .60 

VII.  Written  in  Germany  on  one  of  the  coldest  Days  of 

the  Century  .  .  .  .64 

VIII.  A  Poet's  Epitaph  .  .  .  .65 

IX.  To  the  Daisy         .  .  .  .  .67 

X.  Matthew  .  .  .  .  .68 

XI.  The  two  April  Mornings   .  .  .  .69 

XII.  The  Fountain:  a  Conversation  .  .  .71 

XIII.  Personal  Talk       .  .  .  .  .  *    79* 

XIV.  Illustrated  Books  and  Newspapers  .  .75 

XV.  To  the  Spade  of  a  Friend  (An  Agriculturalist).  Com- 
posed while  we  were  labouring  together  in  his 
Pleasure-ground  .  .  .  .  .75 

XVI.  A  Night  Thought  .  .  .  .77 

XVII.  Incident  characteristic  of  a  favourite  Dog  .        77 

XVIII.  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  same  Dog  .  .79 

XIX.  Fidelity   .  .  .  .  .  .80 

XX.  Ode  to  Duty         .  .  .  .  .83 

XXI.  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior  .  .        86 

XXII.  The  Force  of  Prayer ;  or,  the  Founding  of  Bolton 

Priory:  a  Tradition  .  .  .  .88 

XXIII.  A   Fact,   and  an   Imagination;   or,   Canute   and 
Alfred,  on- the  Sea-shore  .  .  .91 

XXIV.  " A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand"     .  .        92 
XXV.  Ode  to  Lycoris.   May,  1817            .              .              .94 

XXVI.  To  the  same         .  .  .  .  .96 

XXVII.  September,  1819  .  .  .  .  .98 

XXVIII.  Upon  the  same  Occasion  .  .  .      .99 

XXIX.  Memory  .  .  .  .  .  .101 

XXX.  This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive  .  .  .102 


XXXI.  Humanity  .  .  .  .  .102 

XXXII.  The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams.  .      106 

XXXIII.  Thoughts  on  the  Seasons  .  .  .107 

XXXIV.  To upon  the  Birth  of  her  First-born  Child, 

March,  1833  .  .  .  .107 

XXXV.  The  Warning:  a  Sequel  to  the  foregoing  .  .110 

XXXVI.  If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain  .  .114 

XXXVII.  The  Labourer's  Noon-day  Hymn  .  .115 

XXXVIII.  Ode,  composed  on  May  Morning  .  .  .116 

XXXIX.  To  May    .  .  .  .  .  .118 

XL.  Lines  suggested  by  a  Portrait  from  the  Pencil  of 

F.  Stone  .  .  .  .  .  .120 

XLI.  The  foregoing  Subject  resumed     .  .  .124 

XLII.  So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive  .  .125 

XLIII.  Upon  seeing  a  coloured  Drawing  of  the  Bird  of 

Paradise  in  an  Album       .  .  .  .126 


I.  Composed  after  reading  a  Newspaper  of  the  Day  .      128 
II.  Upon  the  late  General  Fast.   March,  1832  .      128 

III.  Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud        .  .129 

IV.  Blest  Statesman  He,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will   .      129 

V.  In  Allusion  to  various  recent  Histories  and  Notices 

of  the  French  Revolution  .  .  .130 

VI.  Continued  .  .  .  .  .130 

VII.  Concluded  .  .  .  .  .131 

VIII.  Men  of  the  Western  World!  in  Fate's  dark  book  .      131 

IX.  To  the  Pennsylvanians     .  .  .  .132 

X.  At  Bologna,  in  Remembrance  of  the  late  Insurrec- 
tions, 1837  .  .  .  .  .132 

XI.  Continued  .....      133 

XII.  Concluded  .  .  .  .  .133 

XIII.  Young  England — what  is  then  become  of  Old        .      134 

XIV.  Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken          .  .134 


I.  Suggested  by  the  View  of  Lancaster  Castle  (on  the 

Road  from  the  South)       .  .  .  .135 

II.  Tenderly  do  we  feel  by  Nature's  law         .  .135 

III.  The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die  .      136 

IV.  Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought  .      136 
V.  Not  to  the  object  specially  designed          .  .137 


VI.  Ye  brood  of  conscience — Spectres!  that  frequent  .  137 

VII.  Before  the  world  had  past  her  time  of  youth          .  137 

VIII.  Fit  retribution,  by  the  moral  code              .  13§ 

IX.  Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter                .  139 
X.  Our  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrine      .  139 

XI.  Ah,  think  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide  .      139 

XII.  See  the  Condemned  alone  within  his  cell  .  .140 

XIII.  Conclusion  .  .  .  .  .140 

XIV.  Apology  .  .  .  .  .  .141 


T.  Epistle  to  Sir  Goorge  PTowland  Beaumont,  Bart. 
From  the  South-west  Coast  of  Cumberland. — 
1811  .  .  .  .  .  .  142 

Upon  perusing  the  foregoing  Epistle  Thirty  Years 
after  its  Composition         .  .  .  .151 

II.  Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  in  a  Vase  .  .  .151 

III.  Liberty:  Sequel  to  the  preceding  .  .  .153 

IV.  Poor  Robin            .               .               .  .  .158 
V.  The  Gleaner:  suggested  by  a  Picture  .  .  *  150 

VI.  To  a  Redbreast  (in  Sickness)          .  .  .160 

VII.  I  know  an  aged  Man  constrained  to  dwell  .      160 

VIII.  Sonnet  to  an  Octogenarian  .  .  .162 

IX.  Floating  Island     .  .  .  .  .162 

X.  How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high  .      163 
XI.  Once  I  could  hail  (howe'er  serene  the  sky)  .      163 

XII.  To  the  Lady  Fleming  on  seeing  the  Foundation  pre- 
paring for  the  Erection  of  Rydal  Chapel,  West- 
moreland .  .  .  .  .165 

XIII.  On  the  same  Occasion       .  .  .  .168 

XIV.  The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle       .  .  .169 

XV.  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill:  a  true  Story  .      173 

XVI.  Prelude,  prefixed  to  the  Volume  entitled  "Poems 

chiefly  of  Early  and  Late  Years  "  .  .176 

XVII.  To  a  Child:  written  in  her  Album  .  .178 

XVIII.  Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  the  Countess  of 

Lonsdale  .  .  .  .  .178 

XIX.  Grace  Darling       .  .  .  .  .180 

XX.  The  Russian  Fugitive:  Part  I  .  .183 

Part  II     .               .               .  .  .  .186 

Part  III  .              .              .  .  .  .188 

Part  IV   .              .              .  .  .  .190 



I.  In  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton,  the  Seat  of  Sir  George 

Beaumont,  Bart.,  Leicestershire    .  .  .      195 

II.  In  a  Garden  of  the  Same  .  .  .195 

III.  Written  at  the  Request  of  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
Bart.,  and  in  his  Name,  for  an  Urn,  placed  by  him 
at  the  Termination  of  a  newly -planted  Avenue,  in 

the  same  Grounds  .  .  .  .196 

IV.  For  a  Seat  in  the  Groves  of  Coleorton        .  .      197 

V.  Written  with  a  Pencil  upon  a  Stone  in  the  Wall  of 
the  House  (an  Out-house),  on  the  Island  at  Gras- 
mere  .  .  .  .  .  .198 

VI.  Written  with  a  slate  Pencil  on  a  Stone,  on  the  side 

of  the  Mountain  of  Black  Comb    .  .  .199 

VII.  Written  with  a  slate  Pencil  upon  a  Stone,  the 
largest  of  a  Heap  lying  near  a  deserted  Quarry, 
upon  one  of  the  Islands  at  Ryclal  .  .  200 

VIII.  In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree         .  .201 

IX.  The  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights      .      201 

X.  Inscriptions  supposed  to  be  found  in  and  near  a 
Hermit's  Cell.  i.  Hopes  what  are  they  ? — Beads  of 
morning  ......  202 

XI.  ii.  Inscribed  upon  a  Rock          .  „  .  204 

XII.  in.  Heist  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant  .  205 

XIII.  iv.  Near  the  Spring  of  the  Hermitage    .  .  205 

XIV.  v.  Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest        .  .  206 

XV.  For  the  Spot  where  the  Hermitage  stood  on  St. 

Herbert's  Island,  Der  went -Water  .  .      206 

XVI.  On  the  Banks  of  a  Rocky  Stream  .  .      208 

I.  The  Prioress'  Tale  ....      209 

II.  The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale  .  .  .217 

III.  Troilus  and  Cresida  ....      228 


I.  The  old  Cumberland  Beggar  .  .  .      234 

II.  The  Farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale         .  .  .240 

III.  The  Small  Celandine         .  .  .  .244 

IV.  The  two  Thieves ;  or,  the  last  Stage  of  Avarice      .      245 
V.  Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay     .  .  .      247 



Epitaphs  [I-IX]  translated  from  Chiabrera           .  248 

I.  Weep  not,  beloved  Friends !  nor  let  the  air             .  248 

II.  Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State              .  *248 

III.  O  Thou  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind               .  249 

IV.  There  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  life     .  250 
V.  True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero               .              .  250 

VI.  Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy  .  .251 

VII.  O  flower  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood         .  252 

VIII.  Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He  .               .  252 

IX.  Pause,  courteous  Spirit ! — Baldi  supplicates            .  253 

I.  By  a  blest  Husband  guided,  Mary  came    .               .  254 

II.  Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained            .  254 

III.  Cenotaph  in  affectionate  Remembrance  of  Frances 
Fermor  ....               .               .               ,               .  255 

IV.  Epitaph  in  the  Chapel-yard  of  Langdale,  West- 
moreland               .....  255 

V.  Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School  of 256 

VI.  Elegiac  Stanzas  suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peele  < 

Castle,  in  a  Storm,  painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont  «  25 & 

VII.  To  the  Daisy         .....  260 

VIII.  Elegiac  Verses  in  Memory  of  my  Brother,  John 

Wordsworth  ....               .               .               .               .  263 

IX.  Sonnet     .  .  .  .  .  .266 

X.  Lines  composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one 
Evening,  after  a  stormy  day,  the  Author  having 
just  read  in  a  Newspaper  that  the  dissolution  of 
Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  expected  .  .  .266 

XI.  Invocation  to  the  Earth.   February,  1816               .  267 

XII.  Lines  written  on  a  blank  Leaf  in  a  Copy  of  the 
Author's  Poem  "The  Excursion",  upon  hearing 
of  the  Death  of  the  late  Vicar  of  Kendal  .  .268 

XIII.  Elegiac  Stanzas  (Addressed  to  Sir  G.  H.  B.  upon 

the  Death  of  his  Sister-in-law)      .              .              .  269 

XIV.  Elegiac  Musings  in  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton  Hall, 

the  Seat  of  the  late  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont,  Bart.       .  270 

XV.  Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Lamb               .  272 

XVI.  Extempore  Effusion  upon  the  Death  of  James  Hogg  276 

XVII.  Inscription  for  a  Monument  in  Crosthwaite  Church, 

in  the  Vale  of  Keswick     ....  278 

EARLY  CHILDHOOD  .  .  .  .  .279 





Translation  of  Virgil's  .xEneid         .  .  .      286 

First  Book             .  .  .  .  .286 

Second  Book         .  .  .  .  .310 

Third  Book           .  .  .  .  .336 

IV.  688-92            .  .  .  .  .356 

VIII.  337-66        .  .  .  .  .356 

Georgic  IV.  511-15  .  .  .  .357 


IN  THE  EDITION  1849-50 

I.  From  the  Alfoxden  Notebook        .  .  .      357 

II.  Chaucer  Modernised.  The  Manciple,  and  the  Man- 

ciple's Tale  .....     358 

III.  Fragments  from  MS.  M     .  .  .  .365 

IV.  The  Tinker  .....      366 
V.  Translation  of  Ariosto       .  .  .  .367 

VI.  Translations  from  Metastasio         .  .  .      369 

VII.  Translations  from  Michelangelo  : 

I.  A  Fragment     .....      370 

II.  Michael  Angelo  in  Reply  to  the  Passage  upon  his 
Statue  of  Mght  Sleeping  .  .  .371 

VIII.  Come,  Gentle  Sleep  .  .  .  .372 

IX.  Translation  of  the  Sestet  of  a  Sonnet  by  Tasso      .     372 

X.  Inscription  for  the  Moss  -Hut  at  Dove  Cottage       .      372 

XI.  Distressful  Gift  !   .....      372 

XII.  On  seeing  some  Tourists  of  the  Lakes  pass  by  reading  374 

XIII.  The  Orchard  Pathway      .  .  .  .374 

XIV.  St.  Paul's  .  .  .  .  .374 
XV.  George  and  Sarah  Green  ....      375 

XVI.  Translation  of  Chiabrera's  Epitaph  on  Tasso         .  377 

XVII.  The  Scottish  Broom          ....  377 

XVIII.  Placard  for  a  Poll  bearing  an  old  Shirt      .  .  378 

XIX.  Two  Epigrams  on  Byron's  Cain    .  .  .  378 

XX.  Epitaph  (the  first  six  lines  only  by  W.  W.)  .  .  378 

XXI.  In  the  first  Page  of  an  Album  by  one  whose  Hand- 

writing is  wretchedly  bad  .  .  .  379 

XXII.  Prithee,  gentle  Lady,  list  .  .  .     379 

XXIII.  The  Lady  whom  you  here  behold  .  .     380 


XXIV.  Composed  when  a  Probability  existed  of  our  being 

obliged  to  quit  Rydal  Mount  as  a  Residence          .     381 

XXV.  Written  in  Mrs.  Field's  Album  opposite  a  Pen- 
and-ink  Sketch  in  the  Manner  of  a  Rembrandt    .     * 
Etching  done  by  Edmund  Field   .  .  .     387 

XXVI.  Written  in  the  Strangers'  Book  at  "The  Station," 

opposite  Bowness  ....     387 

XXVII.  To  the  Utilitarians  .  .  .  .388 

XXVIII.  Epigram  on  an  Event  in  Col.  Evans's  redoubted 

Performances  in  Spain      ....     388 

XXIX.  A  Squib  on  Colonel  Evans  .  .  .389 

XXX.  Inscription  on  a  Rock  at  Rydal  Mount  .  .     389 

XXXI.  Let  more  ambitious  Poets  .  .  .     390 

XXXII.  With  a  small  Present        .  .  .  .390 

XXXIII.  Though  Pulpits  and  the  Desk  may  fail  .  .      390 

XXXIV.  The  Eagle  and  the  Dove  .  .  .  .390 

XXXV.  Lines  inscribed  in  a  Copy  of  his  Poems  sent  to  the 

Queen  for  the  Royal  Library  at  Windsor  .     391 

XXXVI.  Ode  on  the  Installation  of  His  Royal  Highness 
Prince  Albert  as  Chancellor  of  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  July,  1847  ....  392. 

NOTES  *       • 

Evening  Voluntaries         ....     395 
Poems  composed  or  suggested  during  a  Tour,  in  the 
Summer  of  1833  .  .  .  .     399 

Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflection  .  .411 

Sonnets  dedicated  to  Liberty  and  Order   .  .     430 

Sonnets  upon  the  Punishment  of  Death    .  .433 

Miscellaneous  Poems         ....     433 
Inscriptions  .  .  .  .  .441 

Selections  from  Chaucer,  modernised         .  .     443 

Poems  referring  to  the  Period  of  Old  Age  .     445 

Epitaphs  and  Elegiac  Pieces          .  .  .     448 

I  Ode.     Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollec- 
tions of  Early  Childhood  .  .  .  .463 

Appendix  A.  Translation  of  Virgil's  JEneid9etc.      .     468 
Appendix  B.   Poems  not  included  in  edition  of 
1849-50  .  .  .  .  .  .470 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIBST  LINES    .  .  .  .481 



[Composed  1832. — Published  1835.] 

CALM  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose 

Day's  grateful  warmth,  tho'  moist  with  falling  dews. 

Look  for  the  stars,  you'll  say  that  there  are  none ; 

Look  up  a  second  time,  and,  one  by  one, 

You  mark  them  twinkling  out  with  silvery  light,  5 

And  wonder  how  they  could  elude  the  sight ! 

The  birds,  of  late  so  noisy  in  their  bowers, 

Warbled  a  while  with  faint  and  fainter  powers, 

But  now  are  silent  as  the  dim-seen  flowers  : 

Nor  does  the  village  Church-clock's  iron  tone  10 

The  time's  and  season's  influence  disown ; 

Nine  beats  distinctly  to  each  other  bound 

In  drowsy  sequence — how  unlike  the  sound 

That,  in  rough  winter,  oft  inflicts  a  fear 

On  fireside  listeners,  doubting  what  they  hear!  15 

The  shepherd,  bent  on  rising  with  the  sun, 

Had  closed  his  door  before  the  day  was  done, 

And  now  with  thankful  heart  to  bed  doth  creep, 

And  joins  his  little  children  in  their  sleep. 

The  bat,  lured  forth  where  trees  the  lane  o'ershade,         20 

Flits  and  reflits  along  the  close  arcade ; 

The  busy  dor-hawk  chases  the  white  moth 

I.  MS.  1  has  the  title  "Twilight  by  the  side  of  Grasmere  Lake" 

1—2  A  twofold  sleep  the  mountain  tops  (slumber  the  huge  hills)  partake 

High  in  the  air  and  deep  within  the  (in  the  still)  lake     MS.  1 
8  not  in  MS.  1  9  Are  hushed  and  silent . . .     MS.  1,  which  goes  on  atL27 

11   The  night-calm's  soothing  influence     MS. 
16—29  An  earlier  draft  runs: 

The  Labourer  wont  to  rise  at  break  of  day 

Has  closed  his  door,  and  from  the  public  way 

The  sound  of  hoof  or  wheel  is  heard  no  more ; 

One  boat  there  was,  but  it  has  touched  the  shore, 

That  was  the  last  dip  of  its  slackened  oar. 
17-21  Has  closed  his  door,  the  bat  her  flight  begun 

Through  the  dim  air  of  evening,  slow  to  lose 

Its  grateful  warmth,  though  moist  with  falling  dews.   MS.  2 
19  joins      1837:  join      1835 
20—1  The  flitting  Bat  here  thrids  a  close  arcade 

Of  pollard  oaks  forth  tempted  by  the  shade.   MS.  3 
£2  The  busy     1837:  Far-heard  the     1835 
917.17  IV  B 


With  burring  note,  which  Industry  and  Sloth 

Might  both  be  pleased  with,  for  it  suits  them  both. 

A  stream  is  heard — I  see  it  not,  but  know  25 

By  its  soft  music  whence  the  waters  flow : 

Wheels  and  the  tread  of  hoofs  are  heard  no  more ; 

One  boat  there  was,  but  it  will  touch  the  shore 

With  the  next  dipping  of  its  slackened  oar ; 

Faint  sound,  that,  for  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  30 

Might  give  to  serious  thought  a  moment's  sway, 

As  a  last  token  of  man's  toilsome  day! 



Easter  Sunday,  April  7. 


[Composed  April  7,  1833. — Published  1835.] 

THE  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire, 

Flung  back  from  distant  climes  a  streaming  fire, 

Whose  blaze  is  now  subdued  to  tender  gleams, 

Prelude  of  night's  approach  with  soothing  dreams. 

Look  round ; — of  all  the  clouds  not  one  is  moving ;  5 

JTis  the  still  hour  of  thinking,  feeling,  loving. 

Silent,  and  stedfast  as  the  vaulted  sky, 

The  boundless  plain  of  waters  seems  to  lie : — 

Comes  that  low  sound  from  breezes  rustling  o'er 

The  grass-crowned  headland  that  conceals  the  shore  ?      10 

No ;  'tis  the  earth- voice  of  the  mighty  sea, 

Whispering  how  meek  and  gentle  he  can  be ! 

Thou  Power  supreme !  who,  arming  to  rebuke 
Offenders,  dost  put  off  the  gracious  look, 
And  clothe  thyself  with  terrors  like  the  flood  15 

26-6  not  in  MS.  or  1835  30  Sound  that  for  tripping  elves  and 

goblins  gay  MS. 

II.  No  title  in  1836:  "Seaside,  Moresby"  MS.          7  vaulted]  concave  MS. 

8  TV  illimitable  ocean  MS.  9  sound]  voice  MS.  10  The  cliff 

high  raised  above  the  unseen  shore  ?   MS. 

13-16  Dread  Power  of  Powers  etc.  MS.  2 

Father,  who  when  thy  justice  must  rebuke 

The  sinner  .  .  . 

And  execute  thy  purpose  MS.  1 


Of  ocean  roused  into  his  fiercest  mood, 

Whatever  discipline  thy  Will  ordain 

For  the  brief  course  that  must  for  me  remain ; 

Teach  me  with  quick-eared  spirit  to  rejoice 

In  admonitions  of  thy  softest  voice !  20 

Whate'er  the  path  these  mortal  feet  may  trace, 

Breathe  through  my  soul  the  blessing  of  thy  grace, 

Glad,  through  a  perfect  love,  a  faith  sincere 

Drawn  from  the  wisdom  that  begins  with  fear, 

Glad  to  expand ;  and,  for  a  season,  free  25 

From  finite  cares,  to  rest  absorbed  in  Thee ! 


[Composed  March-April  1833. — Published  1835.] 

THE  sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl  gone  to  rest, 

And  the  wild  storm  hath  somewhere  found  a  nest ; 

Air  slumbers — wave  with  wave  no  longer  strives, 

Only  a  heaving  of  the  deep  survives, 

A  tell-tale  motion !  soon  will  it  be  laid,  5 

And  by  the  tide  alone  the  water  swayed. 

Stealthy  withdrawings,  interminglings  mild 

Of  light  with  shade  in  beauty  reconciled — 

Such  is  the  prospect  far  as  sight  can  range, 

The  soothing  recompence,  the  welcome  change.  10 

Where  now  the  ships  that  drove  before  the  blast, 

Threatened  by  angry  breakers  as  they  passed ; 

And  by  a  train  of  flying  clouds  bemocked ; 

Or,  in  the  hollow  surge,  at  anchor  rocked 

As  on  a  bed  of  death  ?  Some  lodge  in  peace,  15 

Saved  by  His  care  who  bade  the  tempest  cease ; 

And  some,  too  heedless  of  past  danger,  court 

Fresh  gales  to  waft  them  to  the  far-off  port ; 

But  near,  or  hanging  sea  and  sky  between, 

Not  one  of  all  those  wingfed  powers  is  seen,  20 

1 7-19  Author  and  Life  of  all  things!  blest  are  they 

Who,  pacing  needfully  the  world's  broad  way 

Have  learned  with  MSS. 
21-4  not  in  MSS.  1,  2 

III,  (BY  THE  SEA-SIDE)]  Composed  by  the  seaside  at  Moresby.    After 
a  Storm  MS. 


Seen  in  her  course,  nor  'mid  this  quiet  heard ; 

Yet  oh !  how  gladly  would  the  air  be  stirred 

By  some  acknowledgment  of  thanks  and  praise, 

Soft  in  its  temper  as  those  vesper  lays 

Sung  to  the  Virgin  while  accordant  oars  25 

Urge  the  slow  bark  along  Calabrian  shores ; 

A  sea-born  service  through  the  mountains  felt 

Till  into  one  loved  vision  all  things  melt : 

Or  like  those  hymns  that  soothe  with  graver  sound 

The  gulfy  coast  of  Norway  iron-bound ;  30 

And,  from  the  wide  and  open  Baltic,  rise 

With  punctual  care,  Lutherian  harmonies. 

Hush,  not  a  voice  is  here !  but  why  repine, 

Now  when  the  star  of  eve  comes  forth  to  shine 

On  British  waters  with  that  look  benign  ?  35 

Ye  mariners,  that  plough  your  onward  way, 

Or  in  the  haven  rest,  or  sheltering  bay, 

May  silent  thanks  at  least  to  God  be  given 

With  a  full  heart;  "our  thoughts  are  heard  in  heaven!" 


[Composed  1834.— Published  1835.] 

NOT  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 

That  come  but  as  a  curse  to  party-strife ; 

Not  in  some  hour  when  Pleasure  with  a  sigh 

Of  languor  puts  his  rosy  garland  by ; 

Not  in  the  breathing-times  of  that  poor  slave  5 

Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  Mammon's  cave — 

Is  Nature  felt,  or  can  be ;  nor  do  words, 

Which  practised  talent  readily  affords, 

Prove  that  her  hand  has  touched  responsive  chords ; 

28  Till]  While  MS.  38-9  silent  .  .  .  heard}  silent  .  .  .  heard  MS.,  1835 

IV".  1-19  Alas,  for  theln  who  crave  impassioned  strife 

How  few  the  lucid  intervals  of  life ; 

When  lonely  Nature's  finer  issues  hit 

The  brain's  perceptions,  for  the  heart  are  fit ; 

With  meekness  sensibilities  abide 

That  do  but  rarely  visit  stormy  pride, 

Full  oft  the  powers  of  genius  are  confined 

By  chains  which  round  herself  she  dares  to  wind.  MS.  1 
5  Not  in  the  respite  of  Ambition's  slave  MS.  2 
7-1 1  Do  lonely  Nature's  finer  issues  move 

The  soul  to  rapture  or  the  heart  to  love.  MS.  2 


Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move  10 

With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 

The  soul  of  Genius,  if  he  dare  to  take 

Life's  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion's  sake ; 

Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished  bent 

Of  all  the  truly  great  and  all  the  innocent.  15 

But  who  is  innocent  ?   By  grace  divine, 
Not  otherwise,  O  Nature !  we  are  thine, 
Through  good  and  evil  thine,  in  just  degree 
Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy. 

To  all  that  Earth  from  pensive  hearts  is  stealing,  20 

And  Heaven  is  now  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing, 
Add  every  charm  the  Universe  can  show 
Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo — 
Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed ; 
No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded  field.  25 

Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a  false  calm  the  peace, 
If  He,  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts  cease, 
Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 
Come  not  to  speed  the  Soul's  deliverance ; 
To  the  distempered  Intellect  refuse  3° 

His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  we  abuse. 


[Composed  1834.— Published  1835.] 

THE  linnet's  warble,  sinking  towards  a  close, 

Hints  to  the  thrush  'tis  time  for  their  repose ; 

The  shrill-voiced  thrush  is  heedless,  and  again 

The  monitor  revives  his  own  sweet  strain ; 

But  both  will  soon  be  mastered,  and  the  copse  5 

Be  left  as  silent  as  the  mountain-tops, 

12  dare   1837:  dares    1835         15  Of  minds  unselfish  and  benevolent.   MS.  2 
20-31  Add  all  that  Earth  from  human  sight  is  stealing 

To  all  that  heaven  is  at  this  hour  revealing, 

What  does  it  serve  for  pleasure  or  for  peace 

If  he  who  can  alone  the  Soul  release 

From  bonds,  for  her  deliverance  refuse 

His  signet,  or  his  mercy  we  abuse.  MS.  2 
24  A  respite  only  can  those  medicines  yield  MS.  1 
V.  6—12  But  a  few  minutes  more  of  fading  light 

Will  leave  the  whole  copse  voiceless,  ere  the  night 


Ere  some  commanding  star  dismiss  to  rest 

The  throng  of  rooks,  that  now,  from  twig  or  nest, 

(After  a  steady  flight  on  home-bound  wings, 

And  a  last  game  of  mazy  hoverings  10 

Around  their  ancient  grove)  with  cawing  noise 

Disturb  the  liquid  music's  equipoise. 

O  Nightingale !   Who  ever  heard  thy  song 
Might  here  be  moved,  till  Fancy  grows  so  strong 
That  listening  sense  is  pardonably  cheated  15 

Where  wood  or  stream  by  thee  was  never  greeted. 
Surely,  from  fairest  spots  of  favoured  lands, 
Were  not  some  gifts  withheld  by  jealous  hands, 
This  hour  of  deepening  darkness  here  would  be 
As  a  fresh  morning  for  new  harmony ;  20 

And  lays  as  prompt  would  hail  the  dawn  of  Night : 
A  dawn  she  has  both  beautiful  and  bright, 
When  the  East  kindles  with  the  full  moon's  light ; 
Not  like  the  rising  sun's  impatient  glow 
Dazzling  the  mountains,  but  an  overflow  25 

Of  solemn  splendour,  in  mutation  slow. 

Wanderer  by  spring  with  gradual  progress  led, 
For  sway  profoundly  felt  as  widely  spread ; 
To  king,  to  peasant,  to  rough  sailor,  dear, 
And  to  the  soldier's  trumpet- wearied  ear ;  30 

How  welcome  wouldst  thou  be  to  this  green  Vale 
Fairer  than  Tempe !  Yet,  sweet  Nightingale ! 

By  some  commanding  star  to  silent  rest 
Dismiss  the  rooks  that  now  from  bough  or  nest 
In  yon  old  grove  disturb  with  cawing  noise 
The  liquid  music's  [easy  ?]  equipoise.  MS. 

14  Will  have  it  here,  and  truth  receive  no  wrong  MS.  15  That  .  .  . 

is]  And  ...  be  MS. 
16-18  Alas  when  all  our  Choristers  have  retreated 

These  hills  by  thy  low  voice  (In  vales  that  by  thy  voice)  are  never 


Surely  if  Nature  from  most .  .  . 
Held  not  some  favor  back  with  .  .  .   MS. 

19  deepening  darkness]  gathering  shadows  MS.  20  new]  thy  MS. 

24-6  not  in  MS.,  1836 
27-8  Heart-thrilling  Bird  mid  Eastern  roses  bred 

For  empire  deeply  etc.  MS. 

31-41  Whether  thou  givest  or  withhold'st  thy  lay 
Be  ours  to  walk  content  with  Nature's  wav. 


From  the  warm  breeze  that  bears  thee  on,  alight 

At  will,  and  stay  thy  migratory  flight ; 

Build,  at  thy  choice,  or  sing,  by  pool  or  fount,  35 

Who  shall  complain,  or  call  thee  to  account  ? 

The  wisest,  happiest,  of  our  kind  are  they 

That  ever  walk  content  with  Nature's  way, 

God's  goodness — measuring  bounty  as  it  may; 

For  whom  the  gravest  thought  of  what  they  miss,  40 

Chastening  the  fulness  of  a  present  bliss, 

Is  with  that  wholesome  office  satisfied, 

While  unrepining  sadness  is  allied 

In  thankful  bosoms  to  a  modest  pride. 


[Composed  1834.— Published  1835.] 

SOFT  as  a  cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge — the  Mere 

Seems  firm  as  solid  crystal,  breathless,  clear, 

And  motionless ;  and,  to  the  gazer's  eye, 

Deeper  than  ocean,  in  the  immensity 

Of  its  vague  mountains  and  unreal  sky!  5 

But,  from  the  process  in  that  still  retreat, 

Turn  to  minuter  changes  at  our  feet ; 

Observe  how  dewy  Twilight  has  withdrawn 

The  crowd  of  daisies  from  the  shaven  lawn, 

And  has  restored  to  view  its  tender  green,  10 

That,  while  the  sun  rode  high,  was  lost  beneath  their 

dazzling  sheen. 

— An  emblem  this  of  what  the  sober  Hour 
Can  do  for  minds  disposed  to  feel  its  power ! 
Thus  oft,  when  we  in  vain  have  wish'd  away 
The  petty  pleasures  of  the  garish  day,  15 

Meek  eve  shuts  up  the  whole  usurping  host 
(Unbashful  dwarfs  each  glittering  at  his  post) 

While  at  all  times  and  seasons  what  we  miss 
Tempers  the  fulness  of  a  loving  bliss,  MS. 
VL  8  Observe]  But  mark  MS. 
13-14  Like  office  can  this  sober  shadowy  hour 

Perform  for  hearts  etc. 

The  MS.  also  preserves  II.  8-19  as  a  separate  (chiefly  octosyllabic)  poem: 
The  dewy  evening  has  withdrawn 
The  daisies  from  the  shaven  lawn 
And  has  restored  its  tender  green 
Lost  while  the  sun  was  up  beneath  their  dazzling  sheen. 


And  leaves  the  disencumbered  spirit  free 
To  reassume  a  staid  simplicity. 

'Tis  well — but  what  are  helps  of  time  and  place,          20* 
When  wisdom  stands  in  need  of  nature's  grace ; 
Why  do  good  thoughts,  invoked  or  not,  descend, 
Like  Angels  from  their  bowers,  our  virtues  to  befriend ; 
If  yet  To-morrow,  unbelied,  may  say, 
"I  come  to  open  out,  for  fresh  display,  25 

The  elastic  vanities  of  yesterday  ?" 


[Composed  1834. — Published  1835.] 

THE  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak- crowned  hill, 

And  sky  that  danced  among  those  leaves,  are  still ; 

Rest  smooths  the  way  for  sleep ;  in  field  and  bower 

Soft  shades  and  dews  have  shed  their  blended  power 

On  drooping  eyelid  and  the  closing  flower ;  5 

Sound  is  there  none  at  which  the  faintest  heart 

Might  leap,  the  weakest  nerve  of  superstition  start ; 

Save  when  the  Owlet's  unexpected  scream 

Pierces  the  ethereal  vault ;  and  ('mid  the  gleam 

Of  unsubstantial  imagery,  the  dream,  10 

From  the  hushed  vale's  realities,  transferred 

To  the  still  lake)  the  imaginative  Bird 

Seems,  'mid  inverted  mountains,  not  unheard. 

Grave    Creature! — whether,    while    the    moon    shines 

On  thy  wings  opened  wide  for  smoothest  flight,  15 

Like  office  can  this  sober  hour 

Perform  for  hearts  that  feel  its  power 

When  we  in  vain  have  wished  away 

The  garish  pleasures  of  broad  day 

While  each  stood  glittering  at  his  post. 

Meek  eventide  shuts  up  the  whole  usurping  host 

And  leaves  the  humble  spirit  free 

To  reassume  its  own  simplicity. 
18  the  groundwork  of  our  nature  free  MS. 

VII.  MS.  has  the  title  "Twilight"  1-2  Ceased  is  the  rustling  .  .  .  The 

sky  ...  is  still  MS. 
3-5  Advancing  slowly  from  the  faded  West 

Sleep  treads  a  way  prepared  for  him  by  Rest.  MS. 
7  suDerstitionl  fancy  MS.  8  at  intervals  the  Owlet's  scream  MS. 


Thou  art  discovered  in  a  roofless  tower, 

Rising  from  what  may  once  have  been  a  lady's  bower ; 

Or  spied  where  thou  sitt'st  moping  in  thy  mew 

At  the  dim  centre  of  a  churchyard  yew ; 

Or  from  a  rifted  crag  or  ivy  tod  20 

Deep  in  a  forest,  thy  secure  abode, 

Thou  giv'st,  for  pastime's  sake,  by  shriek  or  shout, 

A  puzzling  notice  of  thy  whereabout — 

May  the  night  never  come,  nor  day  be  seen, 

When  I  shall  scorn  thy  voice  or  mock  thy  mien !  25 

In  classic  ages  men  perceived  a  soul 
Of  sapience  in  thy  aspect,  headless  Owl ! 
Thee  Athens  reverenced  in  the  studious  grove ; 
And  near  the  golden  sceptre  grasped  by  Jove, 
His  Eagle's  favourite  perch,  while  round  him  sate  3° 

The  Gods  revolving  the  decrees  of  Fate, 
Thou,  too,  wert  present  at  Minerva's  side : 
Hark  to  that  second  larum ! — far  and  wide 
The  elements  have  heard,  and  rock  and  cave  replied. 


[Composed  June  8,  1802.— Published  1807;  omitted  from  edd.  1815-32; 
republished  1835.] 

This  Impromptu  appeared,  many  years  ago,  among  the  Author's  poems, 
from  which,  in  subsequent  editions,  it  was  excluded.  It  is  reprinted  at 
the  request  of  the  Friend  in  whose  presence  the  lines  were  thrown  off. 

THE  sun  has  long  been  set, 

The  stars  are  out  by  twos  and  threes, 

The  little  birds  are  piping  yet 
Among  the  bushes  and  trees  ; 

There's  a  cuckoo,  and  one  or  two  thrushes,  5 

And  a  far-off  wind  that  rushes, 

And  a  sound  of  water  that  gushes, 

And  the  cuckoo's  sovereign  cry 

Fills  all  the  hollow  of  the  sky. 

16  encountered  in  a  moon-lit   MS. 

19/20  Or  in  a  glimmering  Barn  when  thou  dost  chuse 

(Wishing  the  Sun  good  speed)  to  mope  and  muse  MS. 
20  Or  watch  for  food;  or  from  an  ivy  tod  MS. 
23/4  Or  hast  been  robbed  of  liberty  and  joy 

The  drooping  Captive  of  a  thoughtless  boy  MS. 
VIII.  6  And  a  noise  of  MSS.,  1807  7  With  a  noise  of  MSS.,  1807 


Who  would  go  "parading"  10 

In  London,  and  "masquerading," 
On  such  a  night  of  June 
With  that  beautiful  soft  half-moon, 
And  all  these  innocent  blisses  ? 
On  such  a  night  as  this  is !  15 



[Composed  summer,  1817. — Published  1820.] 


HAD  this  effulgence  disappeared 
With  flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent, 
Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 
Of  blank  astonishment ; 

But  'tis  endued  with  power  to  stay,  5 

And  sanctify  one  closing  day, 
That  frail  Mortality  may  see — 
What  is  ? — ah  no,  but  what  can  be ! 
Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 
With  modulated  echoes  rang,  10 

While  choirs  of  fervent  Angels  sang 
Their  vespers  iri  the  grove ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-like,  each  some  sovereign  height, 
Warbled,  for  heaven  above  arid  earth  below, 
Strains  suitable  to  both. — Such  holy  rite,  15 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 

11  and  "masquerading"    1807:  "and  masquerading"    1835-50 
13/14  With  what  the  breathless  Lake  is  feeling 

And  what  the  dewy  air  to  peace  dismisses, 

With  all  that  "JEJarth  from  pensive  hearts  is  stealing 

And  Heaven  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing,  MSS. 

IX.  Composed  during  a  sunset  of  transcendent  Beauty,  in  the  summer  of 
1817.  MS.   Evening  Ode,  (Composed  etc.  as  text)  1820  6  sanctify] 

solemnize  MS. 
11-12  Of  harp  and  voice  while  Angels  sang 

Amid  the  umbrageous  grove   MS. 

13  so  1832:  Or,  ranged  like  stars  along  some   MS.,  1820-7 
15-18  .  .  .  Ye  sons  of  Light, 

If  such  communion  were  repeated  now 

Nor  harp  nor  Seraph's  voice  could  move 

Sublimer  rapture,  holier  love  MS. 


From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 

Sublimer  transport,  purer  love, 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle — the  gleam — 

The  shadow — and  the  peace  supreme !  20 


No  sound  is  uttered, — but  a  deep 
And  solemn  harmony  pervades 
The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh,  25 

Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 
Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 
Whatc'er  it  strikes  with  gem-like  hues! 
In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 

Herds  range  along  the  mountain  side  ;  30 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried ; 
And  gilded  flocks  appear. 
Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve ! 
But  long  as  god-like  wish,  or  hope  divine, 
Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe  35 

That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine ! 
— From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 
A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won ; 
An  intermingling  of  Heaven's  pomp  is  spread 
On  grounds  which  British  shepherds  tread !  40 


And,  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 
Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 
Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 
Present  a  glorious  scale, 

Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air,  45 

To  stop — no  record  hath  told  where ! 

21  What  though  no  sound  be  heard,  a  deep  MS,  30  range]  graze 

MS.         37  not  quickened]  unquicken'd  MS. 
41-9  And  if  they  wish  for  smooth  escape 

From  grief  and  this  terrestrial  vale, 

Yon  hazy  (mountain)  ridges  take  (rocks  and  clouds  present)  the  shape 

Of  stairs  a  gradual  scale, 

By  which  the  fancy  might  ascend 

And  with  those  happy  spirits  blend 

Whose  motions  smitten  with  glad  awe 

By  night  the  dreaming  Patriarch  saw 

Wings  etc.  MS. 


And  tempting  Fancy  to  ascend, 

And  with  immortal  Spirits  blend ! 

— Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play ; 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  gaze  50 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heavenward  raise 

Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad, 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound ! 

And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road,  55 

Hath  slept  since  noon-tide  on  the  grassy  ground, 

Ye  Genii !  to  his  covert  speed  ; 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 

As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 

Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour!  60 


Such  hues  from  their  celestial  Urn 

Were  wont  to  stream  before  mine  eye, 

Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 

Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed  ?  65 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude ; 

For,  if  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survived,  'twas  only  in  my  dreams. 

Dread  Power !  whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 

No  less  than  Nature's  threatening  voice,  70 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 

From  THEE  if  I  would  swerve ; 

Oh,  let  Thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 

Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored  ; 

Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight  75 

Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored ; 

49  shoulders   1837:  shoulder    1820-32         53  Come  from  your  doors  ye  old 
men  MS.  67-8  covert  speed  .  .  .  heed]  couch  repair  .  .  .  care  MS. 

61-3  Whence  but  from  some  celestial  Urn 

Those  colours,  wont  to  meet  my  eye 

Where'er  I  MS. 
62  mine    1837:  my   1820-32 
69-70  whom  storms  and  darkness  serve.  The  thunder  or  the  still  small 



My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth, 

Rejoices  in  a  second  birth! 

— Tis  past,  the  visionary  splendour  fades ; 

And  night  approaches  with  her  shades.  80 

Note — The  multiplication  of  mountain-ridges,  described  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  third  Stanza  of  this  Ode  as  a  kind  of  Jacob's  Ladder, 
leading  to  Heaven,  is  produced  either  by  watery  vapours,  or  sunny  haze ; — 
in  the  present  instance  by  the  latter  cause.  Allusions  to  the  Ode  entitled 
"Intimations  of  Immortality"  pervade  the  last  Stanza  of  the  foregoing 



[Composed  1833. — Published  1842.] 
WHAT  mischief  cleaves  to  unsubdued  regret, 
How  fancy  sickens  by  vague  hopes  beset ; 
How  baffled  projects  on  the  spirit  prey, 
And  fruitless  wishes  eat  the  heart  away, 
The  Sailor  knows ;  he  best,  whose  lot  is  cast  5 

On  the  relentless  sea  that  holds  him  fast 
On  chance  dependent,  and  the  fickle  star 
Of  power,  through  long  and  melancholy  war. 
O  sad  it  is,  in  sight  of  foreign  shores, 
Daily  to  think  on  old  familiar  doors,  10 

Hearths  loved  in  childhood,  and  ancestral  floors ; 
Or,  tossed  about  along  a  waste  of  foam, 
To  ruminate  on  that  delightful  home 
Which  with  the  dear  Betrothed  was  to  come ; 
Or  came  and  was  and  is,  yet  meets  the  eye  15 

Never  but  in  the  world  of  memory ; 
Or  in  a  dream  recalled,  whose  smoothest  range 
Is  crossed  by  knowledge,  or  by  dread,  of  change, 
And  if  not  so,  whose  perfect  joy  makes  sleep 
A  thing  too  bright  for  breathing  man  to  keep.  20 

Hail  to  the  virtues  which  that  perilous  life 
Extracts  from  Nature's  elemental  strife ; 
And  welcome  glory  won  in  battles  fought 
As  bravely  as  the  foe  was  keenly  sought. 
But  to  each  gallant  Captain  and  his  crew  25 

A  less  imperious  sympathy  is  due, 

X.  1-8  not  in  MS.  20  Too  bright  for  mortal  Creature  long  to 

keep  MS. 


Such  as  my  verse  now  yields,  while  moonbeams  play 

On  the  mute  sea  in  this  unruffled  bay ; 

Such  as  will  promptly  flow  from  every  breast, 

Where  good  men,  disappointed  in  the  quest  30 

Of  wealth  and  power  and  honours,  long  for  rest ; 

Or,  having  known  the  splendours  of  success, 

Sigh  for  the  obscurities  of  happiness. 


[Composed  February  25,  1841. — Published  1842.] 

THE  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love, 

Glories  of  evening,  as  ye  there  are  seen 

With  but  a  span  of  sky  between — 

Speak  one  of  you,  my  doubts  remove, 
Which  is  the  attendant  Page  and  which  the  Queen  ?         5 


[Composed  1836.— Published  1837.] 

WANDERER!  that  stoop'st  so  low,  and  com'st  so  near 

To  human  life's  unsettled  atmosphere ; 

Who  lov'st  with  Night  and  Silence  to  partake, 

So  might  it  seem,  the  cares  of  them  that  wake ; 

And,  through  the  cottage-lattice  softly  peeping,  5 

Dost  shield  from  harm  the  humblest  of  the  sleeping ; 

What  pleasure  once  encompassed  those  sweet  names 

Which  yet  in  thy  behalf  the  Poet  claims, 

An  idolizing  dreamer  as  of  yore ! — 

I  slight  them  all ;  and,  on  this  sea-beat  shore  10 

Sole-sitting,  only  can  to  thoughts  attend 

That  bid  me  hail  thee  as  the  SAILOR'S  FRIEND  ; 

So  call  thee  for  heaven's  grace  through  thee  made  known 

By  confidence  supplied  and  mercy  shown, 

When  not  a  twinkling  star  or  beacon's  light  15 

Abates  the  perils  of  a  stormy  night ; 

And  for  less  obvious  benefits,  that  find 

XI.  1  Crescent-]  setting  MS.  2-3  Bright  Pair!  with  but  a  span  of 
sky  between  MSS. 

XII.  For  MS.  draft  v.  notes,  p.  398. 


Their  way,  with  thy  pure  help,  to  heart  and  mind ; 

Both  for  the  adventurer  starting  in  life's  prime ; 

And  veteran  ranging  round  from  clime  to  clime,  20 

Long-baffled  hope's  slow  fever  in  his  veins, 

And  wounds  and  weakness  oft  his  labour's  sole  remains. 

The  aspiring  Mountains  and  the  winding  Streams, 
Empress  of  Night!  are  gladdened  by  thy  beams ; 
A  look  of  thine  the  wilderness  pervades,  25 

And  penetrates  the  forest's  inmost  shades ; 
Thou,  chequering  peaceably  the  minster's  gloom, 
Guid'st  the  pale  Mourner  to  the  lost  one's  tomb ; 
Canst  reach  the  Prisoner — to  his  grated  cell 
Welcome,  though  silent  and  intangible ! —  30 

And  lives  there  one,  of  all  that  come  and  go 
On  the  great  waters  toiling  to  and  fro, 
One,  who  has  watched  thee  at  some  quiet  hour 
Enthroned  aloft  in  undisputed  power, 
Or  crossed  by  vapoury  streaks  and  clouds  that  move      35 
Catching  the  lustre  they  in  part  reprove — 
Nor  sometimes  felt  a  fitness  in  thy  sway 
To  call  up  thoughts  that  shun  the  glare  of  day, 
And  make  the  serious  happier  than  the  gay  ? 

Yes,  lovely  Moon !  if  thou  so  mildly  bright  40 

Dost  rouse,  yet  surely  in  thy  own  despite, 
To  fiercer  mood  the  frenzy-stricken  brain, 
Let  me  a  compensating  faith  maintain ; 
That  there's  a  sensitive,  a  tender,  part 
Which  thou  canst  touch  in  every  human  heart,  45 

For  healing  and  composure. — But,  as  least 
And  mightiest  billows  ever  have  confessed 
Thy  domination ;  as  the  whole  vast  Sea 
Feels  through  her  lowest  depths  thy  sovereignty ; 
So  shines  that  countenance  with  especial  grace  50 

On  them  who  urge  the  keel  her  plains  to  trace 
Furrowing  its  way  right  onward.  The  most  rude, 
Cut  off  from  home  and  country,  may  have  stood — 
Even  till  long  gazing  hath  bedimmed  his  eye, 
Or  the  mute  rapture  ended  in  a  sigh —  55 

Touched  by  accordance  of  thy  placid  cheer, 
With  some  internal  lights  to  memory  dear, 


Or  fancies  stealing  forth  to  soothe  the  breast 

Tired  with  its  daily  share  of  earth's  unrest, — 

Gentle  awakenings,  visitations  meek ;  60 

A  kindly  influence  whereof  few  will  speak, 

Though  it  can  wet  with  tears  the  hardiest  cheek. 

And  when  thy  beauty  in  the  shadowy  cave 
Is  hidden,  buried  in  its  monthly  grave ; 
Then,  while  the  Sailor,  'mid  an  open  sea  65 

Swept  by  a  favouring  wind  that  leaves  thought  free, 
Paces  the  deck — no  star  perhaps  in  sight, 
And  nothing  save  the  moving  ship's  own  light 
To  cheer  the  long  dark  hours  of  vacant  night — 
Oft  with  his  musings  does  thy  image  blend,  70 

In  his  mind's  eye  thy  crescent  horns  ascend, 
And  thou  art  still,  O  Moon,  that  SAILOR'S  FRIEND  ! 



[Composed  1835.— Published  1837.] 

QUEEN  of  the  stars ! — so  gentle,  so  benign, 

That  ancient  Fable  did  to  thee  assign, 

When  darkness  creeping  o'er  thy  silver  brow 

Warned  thee  these  upper  regions  to  forego, 

Alternate  empire  in  the  shades  below —  5 

A  Bard,  who,  lately  near  the  wide-spread  sea 

Traversed  by  gleaming  ships,  looked  up  to  thee 

With  grateful  thoughts,  doth  now  thy  rising  hail 

From  the  close  confines  of  a  shadowy  vale. 

Glory  of  night,  conspicuous  yet  serene,  10 

Nor  less  attractive  when  by  glimpses  seen 

Through  cloudy  umbrage,  well  might  that  fair  face, 

And  all  those  attributes  of  modest  grace, 

In  days  when  Fancy  wrought  unchecked  by  fear, 

Down  to  the  green  earth  fetch  thee  from  thy  sphere,       15 

To  sit  in  leafy  woods  by  fountains  clear ! 

XIII.  1-4  Queen  of  the  Stars,  as  bright  as  when  of  yore 
Whole  nations  knelt  thy  presence  to  adore 
Thou  to  whom  Fable  gave  (Truth  loved  thee  so) 
When  thou  [wort]  doomed  these  regions  etc.  MS. 


O  still  belov'd  (for  thine,  meek  Power,  are  charms 
That  fascinate  the  very  Babe  in  arms, 
While  he,  uplifted  towards  thee,  laughs  outright, 
Spreading  his  little  palms  in  his  glad  Mother's  sight)       20 
O  still  belov'd,  once  worshipped !  Time,  that  frowns 
In  his  destructive  flight  on  earthly  crowns, 
Spares  thy  mild  splendour ;  still  those  far-shot  beams 
Tremble  on  dancing  waves  and  rippling  streams 
With  stainless  touch,  as  chaste  as  when  thy  praise  25 

Was  sung  by  Virgin- choirs  in  festal  lays ; 
And  through  dark  trials  still  dost  thou  explore 
Thy  way  for  increase  punctual  as  of  yore, 
When  teeming  Matrons — yielding  to  rude  faith 
In  mysteries  of  birth  and  life  and  death  30 

And  painful  struggle  and  deliverance — prayed 
Of  thee  to  visit  them  with  lenient  aid. 
What  though  the  rites  be  swept  away,  the  fanes 
Extinct  that  echoed  to  the  votive  strains ; 
Yet  thy  mild  aspect  does  not,  cannot,  cease  35 

Love  to  promote  and  purity  and  peace ; 
And  Fancy,  unreproved,  even  yet  may  trace 
Faint  types  of  suffering  in  thy  beamless  face. 

Then,  silent  Monitress !  let  us — not  blind 
To  worlds  unthought  of  till  the  searching  mind  40 

Of  Science  laid  them  open  to  mankind — 
Told,  also,  how  the  voiceless  heavens  declare 
God's  glory ;  and  acknowledging  thy  share 
In  that  blest  charge  ;  let  us — without  offence 
To  aught  of  highest,  holiest,  influence —  45 

Receive  whatever  good  'tis  given  thee  to  dispense. 
May  sage  and  simple,  catching  with  one  eye 
The  moral  intimations  of  the  sky, 
Learn  from  thy  course,  where'er  their  own  be  taken, 
"To  look  on  tempests,  and  be  never  shaken ;"  50 

To  keep  with  faithful  step  the  appointed  way 
Eclipsing  or  eclipsed,  by  night  or  day, 
And  from  example  of  thy  monthly  range 
Gently  to  brook  decline  and  fatal  change ; 
Meek,  patient,  stedfast,  and  with  loftier  scope,  55 

Than  thy  revival  yields,  for  gladsome  hope! 

917.17  IV  O 




[Composed  February  11,  1846. — Published  I860.] 
GIORDANO,  verily  thy  Pencil's  skill 
Hath  here  portrayed  with  Nature's  happiest  grace 
The  fair  Endymion  couched  on  Latmos-hill ; 
And  Diari  gazing  on  the  Shepherd's  face 
In  rapture, — yet  suspending  her  embrace,  5 

As  not  unconscious  with  what  power  the  thrill 
Of  her  most  timid  touch  his  sleep  would  chase, 
And,  with  his  sleep,  that  beauty  calm  and  still. 
0  may  this  work  have  found  its  last  retreat 
Here  in  a  Mountain-bard's  secure  abode,  10 

One  to  whom,  yet  a  School-boy,  Cynthia  showed 
A  face  of  love  which  he  in  love  would  greet, 
Fixed,  by  her  smile,  upon  some  rocky  seat ; 
Or  lured  along  where  green- wood  paths  he  trod. 

RYDAL  MOUNT,  1846. 


[Composed  June  10,  1846. — Published  1850.] 
WHO  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high 
Travelling  where  she  from  time  to  time  enshrouds 
Her  head,  and  nothing  loth  her  Majesty 
Renounces,  till  among  the  scattered  clouds 
One  with  its  kindling  edge  declares  that  soon  5 

Will  reappear  before  the  uplifted  eye 
A  Form  as  bright,  as  beautiful  a  moon, 
To  glide  in  open  prospect  through  clear  sky. 
Pity  that  such  a  promise  e'er  should  prove 
False  in  the  issue,  that  yon  seeming  space  10 

Of  sky  should  be  in  truth  the  stedfast  face 
Of  a  cloud  flat  and  dense,  through  which  must  move 
(By  transit  not  unlike  man's  frequent  doom) 
The  Wanderer  lost  in  more  determined  gloom. 

XIV.  TO  LUCCA  QIOBDANO]  Upon  a  picture  brought  from  Italy  by  my  Son, 
which,  together  with  its  Companions,  now  hangs  at  Rydal  Mount  MS. 

XV.  1-2  Who  but  has  watched  the  Queen  of  Night  on  high 

Travelling  where  ever  and  anon  she  shrouds  MS. 
8  To  glide]  Gliding  MS. 
13-14  The  Wanderer  lost  in  more  enduring  gloom 

Delusive  lot ;  how  like  Man's  frequent  doom !  MS. 



[Composed  January  10,  1846. — Published  I860.] 

WHERE  lies  the  truth  ?  has  Man,  in  wisdom's  creed, 

A  pitiable  doom ;  for  respite  brief 

A  care  more  anxious,  or  a  heavier  grief  ? 

Is  he  ungrateful,  and  doth  little  heed 

God's  bounty,  soon  forgotten ;  or  indeed,  5 

Must  Man,  with  labour  born,  awake  to  sorrow 

When  Flowers  rejoice  and  Larks  with  rival  speed 

Spring  from  their  nests  to  bid  the  Sun  good  morrow  ? 

They  mount  for  rapture  as  their  songs  proclaim 

Warbled  in  hearing  both  of  earth  and  sky ;  10 

But  o'er  the  contrast  wherefore  heave  a  sigh  ? 

Like  those  aspirants  let  us  soar — our  aim, 

Through  life's  worst  trials,  whether  shocks  or  snares, 

A  happier,  brighter,  purer  Heaven  than  theirs. 

KVI.  4-6  Ungrateful  is  he  taking  little  heed 

Of  bounty  soon  forgotten  ?  or  indeed 

Is  not  Man  made  to  mourn,  must  wake  to  sorrow  MS.  1 
8  Who  but  must  fear  that  he  may  wake  to  sorrow,  corr.  to  Who  that  lies 
down,  and  may  not  wake  etc.   MS.  2          9  as]  ;  thisMSS.          11  heave  a] 
should  we  MS.  1 



OF    1833 

[Except  when  otherwise  stated,  composed  in  1833. — Published  in  1835.] 

Having  been  prevented  by  the  lateness  of  the  season,  in  1831,  from  visiting 
Staffa  and  lona,  the  author  made  these  the  principal  objects  of  a  short 
tour  in  the  summer  of  1833,  of  which  the  following  Series  of  Poems  is  a 
Memorial.  The  course  pursued  was  down  the  Cumberland  river  Derwent, 
and  to  Whitehaven ;  thence  (by  the  Isle  of  Man,  where  a  few  days  were 
passed)  up  the  Frith  of  Clyde  to  Greenock,  then  to  Oban,  Staffa,  lona ; 
and  back  towards  England,  by  Loch  Awe,  Inverary,  Loch  Goil-head, 
Greenock,  and  through  parts  of  Renfrewshire,  Ayrshire,  and  Dumfries- 
shire, to  Carlisle,  and  thence  up  the  river  Eden,  and  homewards  by 


ADIEU,  Rydalian  Laurels !  that  have  grown 

And  spread  as  if  ye  knew  that  days  might  come 

When  ye  would  shelter  in  a  happy  home, 

On  this  fair  Mount,  a  Poet  of  your  own, 

One  who  ne'er  ventured  for  a  Delphic  crown  »5 

To  sue  the  God ;  but,  haunting  your  green  shade 

All  seasons  through,  is  humbly  pleased  to  braid 

Ground-flowers,  beneath  your  guardianship,  self-sown. 

Farewell !  no  Minstrels  now  with  harp  new-strung 

For  summer  wandering  quit  their  household  bowers ;         10 

Yet  not  for  this  wants  Poesy  a  tongue 

To  cheer  the  Itinerant  on  whom  she  pours 

Her  spirit,  while  he  crosses  lonely  moors, 

Or  musing  sits  forsaken  halls  among. 


WHY  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through  this  Isle, 
Repine  as  if  his  hour  were  come  too  late  ? 


ETC.  1835-43 

I.  5  a  Delphic]  fame's  deathless  MS. 

6-6  One  who  to  win  your  emblematic  crown 

Aspires  not,  but  frequenting  etc. 

Who  dares  not  sue  the  God  for  your  bright  crown 

Of  deathless  leaves,  but  haunting  etc.   K 
7  delights  fresh  wreaths  to  braid  K 

II.  1—3  The  Enthusiast,  wandering  through  this  favoured  Isle 
Seeks  not  his  pleasure  in  an  age  too  late 

From  many  an  ivied  tower  enthroned  in  state  MS. 


Not  unprotected  in  her  mouldering  state, 

Antiquity  salutes  him  with  a  smile, 

'Mid  fruitful  fields  that  ring  with  jocund  toil,  5 

And  pleasure-grounds  where  Taste,  refined  Co-mate 

Of  Truth  and  Beauty,  strives  to  imitate, 

Far  as  she  may,  primeval  Nature's  style. 

Fair  Land!  by  Time's  parental  love  made  free, 

By  Social  Order's  watchful  arms  embraced ;  10 

With  unexampled  union  meet  in  thee, 

For  eye  and  mind,  the  present  and  the  past ; 

With  golden  prospect  for  futurity, 

If  that  be  reverenced  which  ought  to  last, 


THEY  called  Thee  MERRY  ENGLAND,  in  old  time ; 

A  happy  people  won  for  thee  that  name 

With  envy  heard  in  many  a  distant  clime ; 

And,  spite  of  change,  for  me  thou  keep'st  the  same 

Endearing  title,  a  responsive  chime  5 

To  the  heart's  fond  belief;  though  some  there  are 

Whose  sterner  judgments  deem  that  word  a  snare 

For  inattentive  Fancy,  like  the  lime 

Which  foolish  birds  are  caught  with.   Can,  I  ask, 

This  face  of  rural  beauty  be  a  mask  ro 

For  discontent,  and  poverty,  and  crime ; 

These  spreading  towns  a  cloak  for  lawless  will  ? 

Forbid  it,  Heaven ! — and  MERRY  ENGLAND  still 

Shall  be  thy  rightful  name,  in  prose  and  rhyme ! 



GRETA,  what  fearful  listening !  when  huge  stones 
Rumble  along  thy  bed,  block  after  block: 
Or,  whirling  with  reiterated  shock, 

5  jocund]  happy  MS. 

9-11  Fair  land  of  Mountains  mid  thy  guardian  sea 

By  social  Order  faithfully  embraced 

So  long,  with  matchless  etc. 

14  so  1845:  If  what  is  rightly  reverenced  may  last.   MS.,  1836-43 
III.  7  Observers  stern,  who  MS.  9-10  Can  ...  be  a]  Is  ...  a  mere 

MS.  13  and    1837:  that    1835  14  Shall    1837:  May    1835 


Combat,  while  darkness  aggravates  the  groans : 

But  if  thou  (like  Cocytus  from  the  moans  5 

Heard  on  his  rueful  margin)  thence  wert  named 

The  Mourner,  thy  true  nature  was  defamed, 

And  the  habitual  murmur  that  atones 

For  thy  worst  rage,  forgotten.   Oft  as  Spring 

Decks,  on  thy  sinuous  banks,  her  thousand  thrones,        10 

Seats  of  glad  instinct  and  love's  carolling, 

The  concert,  for  the  happy,  then  may  vie 

With  liveliest  peals  of  birth-day  harmony; 

To  a  grieved  heart  the  notes  are  benisons. 

[Composed  ?. — Published  1819.] 

AMONG  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  Stream ! 

Thou  near  the  eagle's  nest — within  brief  sail, 

I,  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale, 

Where  thy  deep  voice  could  lull  me !  Faint  the  beam      • 

Of  human  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam  '         5 

On  mortal  notice. — Glory  of  the  vale, 

Such  thy  meek  outset,  with  a  crown,  though  frail, 

Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 

Of  thy  soft  breath ! — Less  vivid  wreath  entwined 

Nemean  victor's  brow ;  less  bright  was  worn,  10 

Meed  of  some  Roman  chief — in  triumph  borne 

With  captives  chained ;  and  shedding  from  his  car 

The  sunset  splendours  of  a  finished  war 

Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind ! 


(Where  the  Author  was  born,  and  his  Father's  remains  are  laid.) 

A  POINT  of  life  between  my  Parents'  dust, 
And  yours,  my  buried  Little-ones !  am  I ; 
And  to  those  graves  looking  habitually 

IV.  7  true]  glad  MS. 

11  Seats  of  glad]  For  joyous  MS. 

V.  1  nursed]  born  MS.  10  Nemean]  The  Isthmian  MS. :  Nemsean 

VI.  On  the  Sight  of  Coekermouth  Church  MS. 


In  kindred  quiet  I  repose  my  trust. 

Death  to  the  innocent  is  more  than  just,  5 

And,  to  the  sinner,  mercifully  bent ; 

So  may  I  hope,  if  truly  I  repent 

And  meekly  bear  the  ills  which  bear  I  must ; 

And  You,  my  Offspring !  that  do  still  remain, 

Yet  may  outstrip  me  in  the  appointed  race,  f  o 

If  e'er,  through  fault  of  mine,  in  mutual  pain 

We  breathed  together  for  a  moment's  space, 

The  wrong,  by  love  provoked,  let  love  arraign, 

And  only  love  keep  in  your  hearts  a  place. 



"THOU  look'st  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think, 

Poet !  that,  stricken  as  both  are  by  years, 

We,  differing  once  so  much,  are  now  Compeers, 

Prepared,  when  each  has  stood  his  time,  to  sink 

Into  the  dust.   Erewhile  a  sterner  link  5 

United  us ;  when  thou,  in  boyish  play, 

Entering  my  dungeon,  didst  become  a  prey 

To  soul-appalling  darkness.  Not  a  blink 

Of  light  was  there ; — and  thus  did  I,  thy  Tutor, 

Make  thy  young  thoughts  acquainted  with  the  grave ;     10 

While  thou  wert  chasing  the  wing'd  butterfly 

Through  my  green  courts ;  or  climbing,  a  bold  suitor, 

Up  to  the  flowers  whose  golden  progeny 

Still  round  my  shattered  brow  in  beauty  wave." 



THE  cattle  crowding  round  this  beverage  clear 

To  slake  their  thirst,  with  reckless  hoofs  have  trod 

The  encircling  turf  into  a  barren  clod ; 

Through  which  the  waters  creep,  then  disappear, 

Born  to  be  lost  in  Derwent  flowing  near ;  5 

Yet,  o'er  the  brink,  and  round  the  limestone  cell 

Of  the  pure  spring  (they  call  it  the  "Nun's  Well/' 

VII.  CASTLE]  Castle  To  the  Author  MS. 

VIII.  4  And  tho'  the  infant  waters  disappear  MS. 


Name  that  first  struck  by  chance  my  startled  ear) 

A  tender  Spirit  broods — the  pensive  Shade 

Of  ritual  honours  to  this  Fountain  paid  10 

By  hooded  Votaresses  with  saintly  cheer ; 

Albeit  oft  the  Virgin-mother  mild 

Looked  down  with  pity  upon  eyes  beguiled 

Into  the  shedding  of  "too  soft  a  tear." 



On  the  banks  of  the  Derwent. 
[Composed  probably  January  1834.] 

PASTOR  and  Patriot ! — at  whose  bidding  rise 

These  modest  Avails,  amid  a  flock  that  need, 

For  one  who  comes  to  watch  them  and  to  feed, 

A  fixed  Abode — keep  down  presageful  sighs. 

Threats,  which  the  unthinking  only  can  despise,  5 

Perplex  the  Church ;  but  be  thou  firm, — be  true 

To  thy  first  hope,  and  this  good  work  pursue,  • 

Poor  as  thou  art.  A  welcome  sacrifice 

Dost  Thou  prepare,  whose  sign  will  be  the  smoke 

Of  thy  new  hearth ;  and  sooner  shall  its  wreaths,  10 

Mounting  while  earth  her  morning  incense  breathes, 

From  wandering  fiends  of  air  receive  a  yoke, 

And  straightway  cease  to  aspire,  than  God  disdain 

This  humble  tribute  as  ill-timed  or  vain. 


Landing  at  the  mouth  of  the  Derwent,  Workington. 

DEAR  to  the  Loves,  and  to  the  Graces  vowed, 
The  Queen  drew  back  the  wimple  that  she  wore ; 
And  to  the  throng,  that  on  the  Cumbrian  shore 
Her  landing  hailed,  how  touchingly  she  bowed ! 

11  votaresses   1837:  Votaries    1835 

IX.  4  presageful]  foreboding  MSS.  9  To  Him  who  dwells  in  Heaven 

X.  3-4  So  1837: 

.  .  .  how  touchingly  she  bowed 
That  hailed  her  landing  on  the  Cumbrian  shore  MS,,   1835 


And  like  a  Star  (that,  from  a  heavy  cloud  5 

Of  pine-tree  foliage  poised  in  air,  forth  darts, 

When  a  soft  summer  gale  at  evening  parts 

The  gloom  that  did  its  loveliness  enshroud) 

She  smiled ;  but  Time,  the  old  Saturnian  Seer, 

Sighed  on  the  wing  as  her  foot  pressed  the  strand,  10 

With  step  prelusive  to  a  long  array 

Of  woes  and  degradations  hand  in  hand — 

Weeping  captivity,  and  shuddering  fear 

Stilled  by  the  ensanguined  block  of  Fotheringay ! 




IF  Life  were  slumber  on  a  bed  of  down, 

Toil  unimposed,  vicissitude  unknown, 

Sad  were  our  lot :  no  hunter  of  the  hare 

Exults  like  him  whose  javelin  from  the  lair 

Has  roused  the  lion ;  no  one  plucks  the  rose,  5 

Whose  proffered  beauty  in  safe  shelter  blows 

'Mid  a  trim  garden's  summer  luxuries, 

With  joy  like  his  who  climbs,  on  hands  and  knees, 

For  some  rare  plant,  yon  Headland  of  St.  Bees. 

This  independence  upon  oar  and  sail,  10 

This  new  indifference  to  breeze  or  gale, 

This  straight-lined  progress,  furrowing  a  flat  lea, 

And  regular  as  if  locked  in  certainty — 

Depress  the  hours.  Up,  Spirit  of  the  storm! 

That  Courage  may  find  something  to  perform ;  15 

That  Fortitude,  whose  blood  disdains  to  freeze 

6  And  like  .  .  .  heavy   1840:  Bright  as  .  .  .  sombre  MS.,  1835-7 

6  High  poised  in  air,  of  pine-tree  foliage,  darts  MS.  9  Seer   1835-43: 

seer    1845 

11-14  Thence  forth  he  saw  a  long  and  long  array 

Of  miserable  seasons  .  .  . 

.  .  .  pallid  fear 

And  last  etc.  MS. 
XI.  6-7  That  mid  smooth  pathway  in  a  garden  blows 

For  easy -minded  men  itself  at  ease  MS.  2 
14  Depress]  Deaden  MS.  2 


At  Danger's  bidding,  may  confront  the  seas, 
Firm  as  the  towering  Headlands  of  St.  Bees. 

Dread  cliff  of  Baruth !  that  wild  wish  may  sleep, 

Bold  as  if  men  and  creatures  of  the  Deep  20 

Breathed  the  same  element ;  too  many  wrecks 

Have  struck  thy  sides,  too  many  ghastly  decks 

Hast  thou  looked  down  upon,  that  such  a  thought 

Should  here  be  welcome,  and  in  verse  enwrought : 

With  thy  stern  aspect  better  far  agrees  25 

Utterance  of  thanks  that  we  have  past  with  ease, 

As  millions  thus  shall  do,  the  Headlands  of  St.  Bees. 

Yet,  while  each  useful  Art  augments  her  store, 
What  boots  the  gain  if  Nature  should  lose  more  ? 
And  Wisdom,  as  she  holds  a  Christian  place  30 

In  man's  intelligence  sublimed  by  grace  ? 
When  Bega  sought  of  yore  the  Cumbrian  coast, 
Tempestuous  winds  her  holy  errand  cross  ?d: 
She  knelt  in  prayer — the  waves  their  wrath  appease ; 
And,  from  her  vow  well  weighed  in  Heaven's  decrees,     35* 
Rose,  where  she  touched  the  strand,  the  Chantry  of  St. 

"Cruel  of  heart  were  they,  bloody  of  hand," 

Who  in  these  Wilds  then  struggled  for  command ; 

The  strong  were  merciless,  without  hope  the  weak ; 

Till  this  bright  Stranger  came,  fair  as  day-break,  40 

And  as  a  cresset  true  that  darts  its  length 

Of  beamy  lustre  from  a  tower  of  strength ; 

Guiding  the  mariner  through  troubled  seas, 

And  cheering  oft  his  peaceful  reveries, 

Like  the  fixed  Light  that  crowns  yon  Headland  of  St.Bees. 

To  aid  the  Votaress,  miracles  believed  46 

Wrought  in  men's  minds,  like  miracles  achieved ; 

28  Much  has  Art  gained  thus  linking  shore  with  shore  MS.  2  30  as 

she  holds   1845:  that  once  held   1835-43  33  A  wild  sea-storm  MS.  2 

33/4  As  high  and  higher  heaved  the  billows,  faith 

Grew  with  them,  mightier  than  the  powers  of  death.    1835 

34  Kneeling . . .  that  storm  she  did  appease  MS.     46  In  those  rude  ages  MS.  2 

46-8  Dread  Cliff  of  Baruth,  thus  thy  ancient  claim 
Gave  way  at  length  to  Bega's  softened  name 
She  too  hath  been  obscured,  but  verse  shall  tell  MS.  1 


So  piety  took  root ;  and  Song  might  tell 

What  humanizing  virtues  near  her  cell 

Sprang  up,  and  spread  their  fragrance  wide  around ;       50 

How  savage  bosoms  melted  at  the  sound 

Of  gospel-truth  enchained  in  harmonies 

Wafted  o'er  waves,  or  creeping  through  close  trees, 

From  her  religious  Mansion  of  St.  Bees. 

When  her  sweet  Voice,  that  instrument  of  love,  55 

Was  glorified,  and  took  its  place,  above 

The  silent  stars,  among  the  angelic  quire, 

Her  chantry  blazed  with  sacrilegious  fire, 

And  perished  utterly ;  but  her  good  deeds 

Had  sown  the  spot,  that  witnessed  them,  with  seeds       60 

Which  lay  in  earth  expectant,  till  a  breeze 

With  quickening  impulse  answered  their  mute  pleas, 

And  lo!  a  statelier  pile,  the  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 

There  are  the  naked  clothed,  the  hungry  fed ; 

And  Charity  exteiideth  to  the  dead  65 

Her  intercessions  made  for  the  soul's  rest 

Of  tardy  penitents ;  or  for  the  best 

Among  the  good  (when  love  might  else  have  slept, 

Sickened,  or  died)  in  pious  memory  kept : 

Thanks  to  the  austere  and  simple  Devotees,  70 

Who,  to  that  service  bound  by  venial  fees, 

Keep  watch  before  the  altars  of  St.  Bees. 

Are  not,  in  sooth,  their  Requiems  sacred  ties 

Woven  out  of  passion's  sharpest  agonies, 

Subdued,  composed,  and  formalized  by  art,  75 

To  fix  a  wiser  sorrow  in  the  heart  ? 

49  near   1837:  round    1835 

56-61  Had  long  held  concord  in  the  Quires  above 

Her  altars  sank,  crushed  by  an  impious  hand, 

And  Pagan  rites  once  more  defiled  the  land, 

But  might  not  kill  her  memory:  her  good  deeds 

Flourished  no  longer,  but  had  scattered  seeds 

That  in  the  ground  lay  patient,  till  a  breeze  MS.  1 
56-9     Had  long  been  tuned,  the  silent  stars  above 

In  blissful  concert  with  etc.  a#  text 

Her  chantry  perished  in  devouring  fire 

Launched  out  of  Pagan  hands  MS.  2 

64  are   1837:  were   1835          65  extendeth   1837:   extended   1835          66 
Her  prayers  and  masses  MS.  2  69  Sickened,]  Languished.  0  73 

Are   1837:  Were   1835 


The  prayer  for  them  whose  hour  is  past  away 

Says  to  the  Living,  profit  while  ye  may ! 

A  little  part,  and  that  the  worst,  he  sees 

Who  thinks  that  priestly  cunning  holds  the  keys  80 

That  best  unlock  the  secrets  of  St.  Bees. 

Conscience,  the  timid  being's  inmost  light, 

Hope  of  the  dawn  and  solace  of  the  night, 

Cheers  these  Recluses  with  a  steady  ray 

In  many  an  hour  when  judgment  goes  astray.  85 

Ah !  scorn  not  hastily  their  rule  who  try 

Earth  to  despise,  and  flesh  to  mortify ; 

Consume  with  zeal,  in  winged  ecstasies 

Of  prayer  and  praise  forget  their  rosaries, 

Nor  hear  the  loudest  surges  of  St.  Bees.  90 

Yet  none  so  prompt  to  succour  and  protect 

The  forlorn  traveller,  or  sailor  wrecked 

On  the  bare  coast ;  nor  do  they  grudge  the  boon 

Which  staff  and  cockle  hat  and  sandal  shoon 

Claim  for  the  pilgrim :  and,  though  chidings  sharp  95  « 

May  sometimes  greet  the  strolling  minstrel's  harp, 

It  is  not  then  when,  swept  with  sportive  ease, 

It  charms  a  feast-day  throng  of  all  degrees, 

Brightening  the  archway  of  revered  St.  Bees. 

How  did  the  cliffs  and  echoing  hills  rejoice  100 

What  time  the  Benedictine  Brethren's  voice, 

Imploring,  or  commanding  with  meet  pride, 

Summoned  the  Chiefs  to  lay  their  feuds  aside, 

And  under  one  blest  ensign  serve  the  Lord 

In  Palestine.  Advance,  indignant  Sword!  105 

Flaming  till  thou  from  Panym  hands  release 

That  Tomb,  dread*  centre  of  all  sanctities 

Nursed  in  the  quiet  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 

But  look  we  now  to  them  whose  minds  from  far 

Follow  the  fortunes  which  they  may  not  share.  no 

77-8  is  ...  Says   1837:  was  .  .  .  Said   1835 

100-1  How  did  the  Mountain  echoes  with  glad  choice 

Of  syllables  take  up  the  Brethren's  MS.  2 
108/9  On,  Champions,  on ! — But  mark !  the  passing  Day 

Submits  her  intercourse  to  milder  sway,    1835 

109  so  1837:  With  high  and  low  whose  busy  thoughts  from  far   1835 
109-12  Meanwhile  for  High  and  Low  the  passing  Day 


While  in  Judea  Fancy  loves  to  roam, 

She  helps  to  make  a  Holy-land  at  home : 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  from  its  sphere  invites 

To  sound  the  crystal  depth  of  maiden  rights ; 

And  wedded  Life,  through  scriptural  mysteries,  115 

Heavenward  ascends  with  all  her  charities. 

Taught  by  the  hooded  Celibates  of  St.  Bees. 

Nor  be  it  e'er  forgotten  how  by  skill 

Of  cloistered  Architects,  free  their  souls  to  fill 

With  love  of  God,  throughout  the  Land  were  raised      120 

Churches,  on  whose  symbolic  beauty  gazed 

Peasant  and  mail-clad  Chief  with  pious  awe ; 

As  at  this  day  men  seeing  what  they  saw, 

Or  the  bare  wreck  of  faith's  solemnities, 

Aspire  to  more  than  earthly  destinies ;  125 

Witness  yon  Pile  that  greets  us  from  St.  Bees. 

Yet  more ;  around  those  Churches,  gathered  Towns 

Safe  from  the  feudal  Castle's  haughty  frowns ; 

Peaceful  abodes,  where  Justice  might  uphold 

Her  scales  with  even  hand,  and  culture  mould  130 

The  heart  to  pity,  train  the  mind  in  care 

For  rules  of  life,  sound  as  the  Time  could  bear. 

Nor  dost  thou  fail,  thro5  abject  love  of  ease, 

Or  hindrance  raised  by  sordid  purposes, 

To  bear  thy  part  in  this  good  work,  St.  Bees.  135 

Who  with  the  ploughshare  clove  the  barren  moors, 
And  to  green  meadows  changed  the  swampy  shores  ? 
Thinned  the  rank  woods ;  and  for  the  cheerful  grange 
Made  room  where  wolf  and  boar  were  used  to  range  ? 
Who  taught,  and  showed  by  deeds,  that  gentler  chains  140 
Should  bind  the  vassal  to  his  lord's  domains  ? 

Submits  its  intercourse  to  milder  sway 
The  Knight  who  in  Judea  may  not  roam 
Can  find  or  make  his  Holy-land  etc.   MS.  2 

118-35  om.  1835-43  119  Architects  .  .  .  souls]  builders  .  .  .  hearts 

C  120  were  for  his  worship  raised  C  121  For  worship  struc- 

tures on  whose  beauty   C  123  men]  we  C  125  Uplift  our  hearts 

for  blissful  (May  lift  the  heart  to  heavenly  oorr.  to  blissful)   C 
136-9  Mountains  of  Caupland  what  delight  was  yours 
When  plough  invaded  at  your  feet  the  moors, 
When  hatchets  thinned  the  forests,  and  the  grange 
Appeared  etc.  MS.  2 


The  thoughtful  Monks,  intent  their  God  to  please, 
For  Christ's  dear  sake,  by  human  sympathies 
Poured  from  the  bosom  of  thy  Church,  St.  Bees ! 

But  all  availed  not ;  by  a  mandate  given  145 

Through  lawless  will  the  Brotherhood  was  driven 

Forth  from  their  cells ;  their  ancient  House  laid  low 

In  Reformation's  sweeping  overthrow. 

But  now  once  more  the  local  Heart  revives, 

The  inextinguishable  Spirit  strives.  150 

Oh  may  that  Power  who  hushed  the  stormy  seas, 

And  cleared  a  way  for  the  first  Votaries, 

Prosper  the  new-born  College  of  St.  Bees ! 

Alas !  the  Genius  of  our  age,  from  Schools 

Less  humble,  draws  her  lessons,  aims,  and  rules.  155 

To  Prowess  guided  by  her  insight  keen 

Matter  and  Spirit  are  as  one  Machine ; 

Boastful  Idolatress  of  formal  skill 

She  in  her  own  would  merge  the  eternal  will : 

Better,  if  Reason's  triumphs  match  with  these,  i6o% 

Her  flight  before  the  bold  credulities 

That  furthered  the  first  teaching  of  St.  Bees.1 




RANGING  the  heights  of  Scawfell  or  Blackcomb, 
In  his  lone  course  the  Shepherd  oft  will  pause, 
And  strive  to  fathom  the  mysterious  laws 

1  See  " Excursion,"  seventh  part;  and  "Ecclesiastical  Sketches,"  second 
part,  near  the  beginning. 

151-3  Albeit  upheld  by  milder  energies 

Than  hers  who  cleared  her  way  thro'  stormy  seas 

By  might  of  Faith. — God  prosper  thee,  St.  Bees  MS.  2 
158-9  Elate  with  [?]  and  mechanic  skill 

She  ponders  not  the  laws  of  Soul  and  Will  MS.  2 
156-9  Would  merge,  Idolatress  of  formal  skill, 

In  her  own  systems  God's  Eternal  Will. 

To  her  despising  faith  in  things  unseen 

Matter  and  Spirit  are  as  one  Machine.    MS.  Letter  1844  and  0 
158-9  She  sinks,  Idolatress  of  formal  skill, 

In  her  own  systems  God's  eternal  will.   MS.  Letter  1842 
159/60  Expert  to  move  in  paths  that  Newton  trod, 

From  Newton's  Universe  would  banish  God  MS.  2,  1835 


By  which  the  clouds,  arrayed  in  light  or  gloom, 

On  Mona  settle,  and  the  shapes  assume  5 

Of  all  her  peaks  and  ridges.   What  he  draws 

From  sense,  faith,  reason,  fancy,  of  the  cause, 

He  will  take  with  him  to  the  silent  tomb. 

Or  by  his  fire,  a  child  upon  his  knee, 

Haply  the  untaught  Philosopher  may  speak  10 

Of  the  strange  sight,  nor  hide  his  theory 

That  satisfies  the  simple  and  the  meek, 

Blest  in  their  pious  ignorance,  though  weak 

To  cope  with  Sages  undevoutly  free. 



BOLD  words  affirmed,  in  days  when  faith  was  strong 

And  doubts  and  scruples  seldom  teased  the  brain, 

That  no  adventurer's  bark  had  power  to  gain 

These  shores  if  he  approached  them  bent  on  wrong ; 

For,  suddenly  up-conjured  from  the  Main,  5 

Mists  rose  to  hide  the  Land — that  search,  though  long 

And  eager,  might  be  still  pursued  in  vain. 

O  Fancy,  what  an  age  was  that  for  song ! 

That  age,  when  not  by  laws  inanimate, 

As  men  believed,  the  waters  were  impelled,  10 

The  air  controlled,  the  stars  their  courses  held ; 

But  element  and  orb  on  acts  did  wait 

Of  Powers  endued  with  visible  form,  instinct 

With  will,  and  to  their  work  by  passion  linked. 


DESIRE  we  past  illusions  to  recal  ? 

To  reinstate  wild  Fancy,  would  we  hide 

Truths  whose  thick  veil  Science  has  drawn  aside  ? 

No, — -let  this  Age,  high  as  she  may,  instal 

In  her  esteem  the  thirst  that  wrought  man's  fall,  5 

The  universe  is  infinitely  wide ; 

And  conquering  Reason,  if  self-glorified, 

Can  nowhere  move  uncrossed  by  some  new  wall 

XII.  9-10  Or  haply  with  .  .  .  That  rude  MS.  13  How  blest  is  MS. 
14  Sages]  science  MS. 

XIII.  2  not  in  MS.,  1835 


Or  gulf  of  mystery,  which  them  alone, 

Imaginative  Faith!  canst  overleap,  10 

In  progress  toward  the  fount  of  Love, — the  throne 

Of  Power  whose  ministers  the  records  keep 

Of  periods  fixed,  and  laws  established,  less 

Flesh  to  exalt  than  prove  its  nothingness. 


"Dignum  laude  virum  Musa  vetat  mori." 

THE  feudal  Keep,  the  bastions  of  Cohorn, 

Even  when  they  rose  to  check  or  to  repel 

Tides  of  aggressive  war,  oft  served  as  well 

Greedy  ambition,  armed  to  treat  with  scorn 

Just  limits ;  but  yon  Tower,  whose  smiles  adorn  5 

This  perilous  bay,  stands  clear  of  all  offence ; 

Blest  work  it  is  of  love  and  innocence, 

A  Tower  of  refuge  built  for  the  else  forlorn. 

Spare  it,  ye  waves,  and  lift  the  mariner,  t 

Struggling  for  life,  into  its  saving  arms!  10 

Spare,  too,  the  human  helpers !  Do  they  stir 

'Mid  your  fierce  shock  like  men  afraid  to  die  ? 

No ;  their  dread  service  nerves  the  heart  it  warms, 

And  they  are  led  by  noble  HILLARY. l 



WHY  stand  we  gazing  on  the  sparkling  Brine, 
With  wonder  smit  by  its  transparency, 
And  all-enraptured  with  its  purity  ? — 
Because  the  unstained,  the  clear,  the  crystalline, 
Have  ever  in  them  something  of  benign ;  5 

Whether  in  gem,  in  water,  or  in  sky, 
A  sleeping  infant's  brow,  or  wakeful  eye 
Of  a  young  maiden,  only  not  divine. 
1  See  Note. 

XIV.  12  ao  1837:  Of  Power,  whose  ministering  Spirits  records  keep      1836 

XV.  1-2  The  Citadels  of  Vauban  and  Cohorn 

Even  when  they  rose  with  purpose  MS. 

4  Dark  projects  of  Ambition,  proud  to  scorn  MS.  8  built  for    1845: 

to   MS..  1836-43 


Scarcely  the  hand  forbears  to  dip  its  palm 

For  beverage  drawn  as  from  a  mountain- well.  10 

Temptation  centres  in  the  liquid  Calm ; 

Our  daily  raiment  seems  no  obstacle 

To  instantaneous  plunging  in,  deep  Sea ! 

And  revelling  in  long  embrace  with  thee.1 



A  YOUTH  too  certain  of  his  power  to  wade 

On  the  smooth  bottom  of  this  clear  bright  sea, 

To  sight  so  shallow,  with  a  bather's  glee, 

Leapt  from  this  rock,  and  but  for  timely  aid 

He,  by  the  alluring  element  betrayed,  5 

Had  perished.   Then  might  Sea-nymphs  (and  with  sighs 

Of  self-reproach)  have  chanted  elegies 

Bewailing  his  sad  fate,  when  he  was  laid 

In  peaceful  earth :  for,  doubtless,  he  was  frank, 

Utterly  in  himself  devoid  of  guile ;  10 

Knew  not  the  double-dealing  of  a  smile ; 

Nor  aught  that  makes  men's  promises  a  blank, 

Or  deadly  snare :  and  He  survives  to  bless 

The  Power  that  saved  him  in  his  strange  distress. 



DID  pangs  of  grief  for  lenient  time  too  keen, 
Grief  that  devouring  waves  had  caused — or  guilt 
Which  they  had  witnessed,  sway  the  man  who  built 
This  Homestead,  placed  where  nothing  could  be  seen, 
Nought  heard,  of  ocean  troubled  or  serene  ?  5 

1  The  sea-water  on  the  coast  of  the  Isle  of  Man  is  singularly  pure  and 

XVI.  14  revelling]  wantoning  MS. 

XVII.  4r-8  so  1837: 

.  .  .  and  surely,  had  not  aid 

Been  near,  must  soon  have  breathed  out  life,  betrayed 
By  fondly  trusting  to  an  element 
Fair,  and  to  others  more  than  innocent ; 
Then  had  sea-nymphs  sung  dirges  for  him  laid  MS.,  1835 
5  He]  Here     C 


1835  1  Did     1837:  Not  MS.,  1835          2  or     1837:  nor     MS.,  1835 

3  isway     1837:  swayed  MS.,  1835  5  serene.    MS.,  1835 

917.17  IV  D 


A  tired  Ship-soldier  on  paternal  land, 

That  o'er  the  channel  holds  august  command. 

The  dwelling  raised, — a  veteran  Marine. 

He,  in  disgust,  turned  from  the  neighbouring  sea 

To  shun  the  memory  of  a  listless  life  10 

That  hung  between  two  callings.  May  no  strife 

More  hurtful  here  beset  him,  doomed  though  free, 

Self-doomed,  to  worse  inaction,  till  his  eye 

Shrink  from  the  daily  sight  of  earth  and  sky ! 


(A  Friend  of  the  Author.) 

FROM  early  youth  I  ploughed  the  restless  Main, 
My  mind  as  restless  and  as  apt  to  change ; 
Through  every  clime  and  ocean  did  I  range, 
In  hope  at  length  a  competence  to  gain ; 
For  poor  to  Sea  I  went,  and  poor  I  still  remain.  5 

Year  after  year  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
And  hardships  manifold  did  I  endure,  * 

For  Fortune  on  me  never  deign  Jd  to  smile ; 
Yet  I  at  last  a  resting-place  have  found, 
With  just  enough  life's  comforts  to  procure,  10 

In  a  snug  Cove  on  this  our  favoured  Isle, 
A  peaceful  spot  where  Nature's  gifts  abound ; 
Then  sure  I  have  no  reason  to  complain, 
Though  poor  to  Sea  I  went,  and  poor  I  still  remain. 


(Supposed  to  be  written  by  a  Friend.) 
BROKEN  in  fortune,  but  in  mind  entire 
And  sound  in  principle,  I  seek  repose 
Where  ancient  trees  this  convent-pile  enclose,1 
In  ruin  beautiful.   When  vain  desire 
1  Rushen  Abbey. 

6  A  tired  MS.,  1835,  1845:  No,— a     1837-43 
8-10  — Fantastic  slave  of  spleen 

He  sought  by  shunning  thus  the  neighbouring  sea 

Refuge  from  memory  K 
9  He    1845:  Who  .  .  .     1835-43:  The  weary  Man    C 

XIX.  12  Where  all  the  requisites  of  life  abound    MS. 

XX.  1  in  mind]  of  mind  MS. 


Intrudes  on  peace,  I  pray  the  eternal  Sire  5 

To  cast  a  soul-subduing  shade  on  me, 

A  grey-haired,  pensive,  thankful  Refugee ; 

A  shade — but  with  some  sparks  of  heavenly  fire 

Once  to  these  cells  vouchsafed.  And  when  I  note 

The  old  Tower's  brow  yellowed  as  with  the  beams  10 

Of  sunset  ever  there,  albeit  streams 

Of  stormy  weather-stains  that  semblance  wrought, 

I  thank  the  silent  Monitor,  and  say 

' 'Shine  so,  my  aged  brow,  at  all  hours  of  the  day!" 



ONCE  on  the  top  of  TynwakTs  formal  mound 

(Still  marked  with  green  turf  circles  narrowing 

Stage  above  stage)  would  sit  this  Island's  King, 

The  laws  to  promulgate,  enrobed  and  crowned ; 

While,  compassing  the  little  mound  around,  5 

Degrees  and  Orders  stood,  each  under  each : 

Now,  like  to  things  within  fate's  easiest  reach, 

The  power  is  merged,  the  pomp  a  grave  has  found. 

Off  with  yon  cloud,  old  Snafell !  that  thine  eye 

Over  three  Realms  may  take  its  widest  range ;  10 

And  let,  for  them,  thy  fountains  utter  strange 

Voices,  thy  winds  break  forth  in  prophecy, 

If  the  whole  State  must  suffer  mortal  change, 

Like  Mona's  miniature  of  sovereignty. 


'  DESPOND  who  will — /  heard  a  voice  exclaim, 
"Though  fierce  the  assault,  and  shatter 'd  the  defence, 
It  cannot  be  that  Britain's  social  frame, 
The  glorious  work  of  time  and  providence, 

8-9  Such  sparks  of  holy  fire 

As  once  were  cherished  here  MS. 
1 1  albeit]  and  know  that     K 

XXI.  1-3  Time  was  when  on  the  top  of  yon  small  mound 

(Still  marked  with  circles  duly  narrowing 

Each  above  each)     K 

4  Sate  'mid  the  assembled  people  (Would  sit  by  solemn  usage)  robed  and 
crowned    K  5  little]  grassy     K  9  yon  cloud]  those  clouds    K 

XXII.  1  Clear  voices  from  pure  worlds  of  hope  exclaim  MS. 


Before  a  flying  season's  rash  pretence  5 

Should  fall ;  that  She,  whose  virtue  put  to  shame, 
When  Europe  prostrate  lay,  the  Conqueror's  aim, 
Should  perish,  self-subverted.   Black  and  dense 
The  cloud  is ;  but  brings  that  a  day  of  doom 
To  Liberty  ?  Her  sun  is  up  the  while,  10 

That  orb  whose  beams  round  Saxon  Alfred  shone : 
Then  laugh,  ye  innocent  Vales !  ye  Streams,  sweep  on, 
Nor  let  one  billow  of  our  heaven- blest  Isle 
Toss  in  the  fanning  wind  a  humbler  plume." 


(During  an  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  July  17.) 
SINCE  risen  from  ocean,  ocean  to  defy, 
Appeared  the  Crag  of  Ailsa,  ne'er  did  morn 
With  gleaming  lights  more  gracefully  adorn 
His  sides,  or  wreathe  with  mist  his  forehead  high : 
Now,  faintly  darkening  with  the  sun's  eclipse,  ,5 

Still  is  he  seen,  in  lone  sublimity, 
Towering  above  the  sea  and  little  ships ; 
For  dwarfs  the  tallest  seem  while  sailing  by, 
Each  for  her  haven ;  with  her  freight  of  Care, 
Pleasure,  or  Grief,  and  Toil  that  seldom  looks  10 

Into  the  secret  of  to-morrow's  fare ; 
Though  poor,  yet  rich,  without  the  wealth  of  books, 
Or  aught  that  watchful  Love  to  Nature  owes 
For  her  mute  Powers,  fix'd  Forms,  or  transient  Shows. 



(In  a  Steamboat.) 

ARRAN  !  a  single-crested  TenerifFe, 
A  St.  Helena  next — in  shape  and  hue, 
Varying  her  crowded  peaks  and  ridges  blue ; 
Who  but  must  covet  a  cloud-seat,  or  skiff 
Built  for  the  air,  or  wingfed  Hippogriff  ?  5 

6  Before  a  season's  calculating  sense   MS.  10  Her]  The  corr.  to  Our 

MS.  13  our]  this  MS. 

XXIII.  IN  THE  FRITH  etc.  1835  Ailsa  Crag,  between  5  o'clock  and  6  in  the 
morning  of  the  seventh  of  July,  an  eclipse  of  the  Sun  commencing  MS. 
14  or  1837:  and  1835 


That  he  might  fly,  where  no  one  could  pursue, 

From  this  dull  Monster  and  her  sooty  crew ; 

And,  as  a  God,  light  on  thy  topmost  cliff. 

Impotent  wish !  which  reason  would  despise 

If  the  mind  knew  no  union  of  extremes,  10 

No  natural  bond  between  the  boldest  schemes 

Ambition  frames  and  heart-humilities. 

Beneath  stern  mountains  many  a  soft  vale  lies, 

And  lofty  springs  give  birth  to  lowly  streams. 


[See  former  Series,  Vol.  iii,  p.  268.] 
THE  captive  Bird  was  gone  ; — to  cliff  or  moor 
Perchance  had  flown,  delivered  by  the  storm ; 
Or  he  had  pined,  and  sunk  to  feed  the  worm: 
Him  found  we  not :  but,  climbing  a  tall  tower, 
There  saw,  impaved  with  rude  fidelity  5 

Of  art  mosaic,  in  a  roofless  floor, 
An  Eagle  with  stretched  wings,  but  beamless  eye — 
An  Eagle  that  could  neither  wail  nor  soar. 
Effigy  of  the  Vanished — (shall  I  dare 

To  call  thee  so  ?)  or  symbol  of  fierce  deeds  10 

And  of  the  towering  courage  which  past  times 
Rejoiced  in — take,  whate'er  thou  be,  a  share, 
Not  undeserved,  of  the  memorial  rhymes 
That  animate  my  way  where'er  it  leads ! 



NOT  to  the  clouds,  not  to  the  cliff,  he  flew ; 
But  when  a  storm,  on  sea  or  mountain  bred, 
Came  and  delivered  him,  alone  he  sped 
Into  the  castle-dungeon's  darkest  mew. 

XXIV.  8  as     1837:  like     1835 

XXV.  5-6   Espied  in  rude  mosaic  effigy 

Set  in  a  roofless  Chamber's  pavement  floor  MS. 

9  so  1837:  Effigies  of  the  Vanished    1835:  Shade  of  the  poor  Departed 
10-12  so  1837: 

.  .  .  past  times, 

That  towering  courage,  and  the  savage  deeds 
Those  times  were  proud  of,  take  Thou  for  a  share,     1835 


Now,  near  his  master's  house  in  open  view  5 

He  dwells,  and  hears  indignant  tempests  howl, 

Kennelled  and  chained.  Ye  tame  domestic  fowl, 

Beware  of  him !   Thou,  saucy  cockatoo, 

Look  to  thy  plumage  and  thy  life ! — The  roe, 

Fleet  as  the  west  wind,  is  for  him  no  quarry ;  10 

Balanced  in  ether  he  will  never  tarry, 

Eyeing  the  sea's  blue  depths.   Poor  Bird!  even  so 

Doth  man  of  brother  man  a  creature  make 

That  clings  to  slavery  for  its  own  sad  sake. 


[Composed  1824.— Published  1827.] 

OFT  have  I  caught,  upon  a  fitful  breeze, 

Fragments  of  far-off  melodies, 

With  ear  not  coveting  the  whole, 

A  part  so  charmed  the  pensive  soul : 

While  a  dark  storm  before  my  sight  5 

Was  yielding,  on  a  mountain  height 

Loose  vapours  have  I  watched,  that  won 

Prismatic  colours  from  the  sun ; 

Nor  felt  a  wish  that  heaven  would  show 

The  image  of  its  perfect  bow.  10 

What  need,  then,  of  these  finished  Strains  ? 

Away  with  counterfeit  Remains ! 

An  abbey  in  its  lone  recess, 

A  temple  of  the  wilderness, 

Wrecks  though  they  be,  announce  with  feeling  15 

The  majesty  of  honest  dealing. 

Spirit  of  Ossian !  if  imbound 

In  language  thou  may'st  yet  be  found, 

If  aught  (intrusted  to  the  pen 

Or  floating  on  the  tongues  of  men,  20 

Albeit  shattered  and  impaired) 

Subsist  thy  dignity  to  guard, 

In  concert  with  memorial  claim 

Of  old  grey  stone,  and  high-born  name 

That  cleaves  to  rock  or  pillared  cave  25 

XXVI.  7  domestic]  villatic  MS. 

XXVII.  1  upon  a     1832:  from     1827 


Where  moans  the  blast,  or  beats  the  wave, 

Let  Truth,  stern  arbitress  of  all, 

Interpret  that  Original, 

And  for  presumptuous  wrongs  atone ; — 

Authentic  words  be  given,  or  none !  30 

Time  is  not  blind ; — yet  He,  who  spares 

Pyramid  pointing  to  the  stars, 

Hath  preyed  with  ruthless  appetite 

On  all  that  marked  the  primal  flight 

Of  the  poetic  ecstasy  35 

Into  the  land  of  mystery. 

No  tongue  is  able  to  rehearse 

One  measure,  Orpheus !  of  thy  verse ; 

Musaeus,  stationed  with  his  lyre 

Supreme  among  the  Elysian  quire,  40 

Is,  for  the  dwellers  upon  earth, 

Mute  as  a  lark  ere  morning's  birth. 

Why  grieve  for  these,  though  past  away 

The  music,  and  extinct  the  lay  ? 

When  thousands,  by  severer  doom,  45 

Full  early  to  the  silent  tomb 

Have  sunk,  at  Nature's  call ;  or  strayed 

From  hope  and  promise,  self- betrayed ; 

The  garland  withering  on  their  brows ; 

Stung  with  remorse  for  broken  vows ;  50 

Frantic — else  how  might  they  rejoice  ? 

And  friendless,  by  their  own  sad  choice ! 

Hail,  Bards  of  mightier  grasp !  on  you 

I  chiefly  call,  the  chosen  Few, 

Who  cast  not  off  the  acknowledged  guide,  55 

Who  faltered  not,  nor  turned  aside ; 

Whose  lofty  genius  could  survive 

Privation,  under  sorrow  thrive ; 

In  whom  the  fiery  Muse  revered 

The  symbol  of  a  snow-white  beard,  60 

Bedewed  with  meditative  tears 

Dropped  from  the  lenient  cloud  of  years. 

Brothers  in  soul!  though  distant  times 

Produced  you  nursed  in  various  climes, 

Ye,  when  the  orb  of  life  had  waned,  65 

A  plenitude  of  love  retained : 


Hence,  while  in  you  each  sad  regret 

By  corresponding  hope  was  met, 

Ye  lingered  among  human  kind, 

Sweet  voices  for  the  passing  wind ;  70 

Departing  sunbeams,  loth  to  stop, 

Though  smiling  on  the  last  hill-top ! 

Such  to  the  tender-hearted  maid 

Even  ere  her  joys  begin  to  fade ; 

Such,  haply,  to  the  rugged  chief  75 

By  fortune  crushed,  or  tamed  by  grief; 

Appears,  on  Morven's  lonely  shore, 

Dim-gleaming  through  imperfect  lore, 

The  Son  of  Fingal ;  such  was  blind 

Maeonides  of  ampler  mind ;  80 

Such  Milton,  to  the  fountain-head 

Of  glory  by  Urania  led ! 



WE  SAW,  but  surely,  in  the  motley  crowd, 

Not  One  of  us  has  felt  the  far-famed  sight ; 

How  could  we  feel  it  ?  each  the  other's  blight, 

Hurried  and  hurrying,  volatile  and  loud. 

0  for  those  motions  only  that  invite  5 

The  Ghost  of  Fingal  to  his  tuneful  Cave 

By  the  breeze  entered,  and  wave  after  wave 

Softly  embosoming  the  timid  light ! 

And  by  one  Votary  who  at  will  might  stand 

Gazing  and  take  into  his  mind  and  heart,  10 

With  undistracted  reverence,  the  effect 

Of  those  proportions  where  the  almighty  hand 

That  made  tlje  worlds,  the  sovereign  Architect, 

Has  deigned  to  work  as  if  with  human  Art ! 


(After  the  Crowd  had  departed.) 
THANKS  for  the  lessons  of  this  Spot — fit  school 
For  the  presumptuous  thoughts  that  would  assign 
Mechanic  laws  to  agency  divine ; 

XXVIII.  2  felt  MS.,  1835 

XXIX.  After  the  crowd  etc.  1845:  not  in  1835-43 


And,  measuring  heaven  by  earth,  would  overrule 

Infinite  Power.  The  pillared  vestibule,  5 

Expanding  yet  precise,  the  roof  embowed, 

Might  seem  designed  to  humble  man,  when  proud 

Of  his  best  workmanship  by  plan  and  tool. 

Down-bearing  with  his  whole  Atlantic  weight 

Of  tide  and  tempest  on  the  Structure's  base,  10 

And  flashing  to  that  Structure's  topmost  height, 

Ocean  has  proved  its  strength,  and  of  its  grace 

In  calms  is  conscious,  finding  for  his  freight 

Of  softest  music  some  responsive  place. 



YE  shadowy  Beings,  that  have  rights  and  claims 

In  every  cell  of  Fingal's  mystic  Grot, 

Where  are  ye  ?  Driven  or  venturing  to  the  spot, 

Our  fathers  glimpses  caught  of  your  thin  Frames, 

And,  by  your  mien  and  bearing,  knew  your  names ;          5 

And  they  could  hear  his  ghostly  song  who  trod 

Earth,  till  the  flesh  lay  on  him  like  a  load, 

While  he  struck  his  desolate  harp  without  hopes  or  aims. 

Vanished  ye  are,  but  subject  to  recal ; 

Why  keep  we  else  the  instincts  whose  dread  law  10 

Ruled  here  of  yore,  till  what  men  felt  they  saw, 

Not  by  black  arts  but  magic  natural ! 

If  eyes  be  still  sworn  vassals  of  belief, 

Yon  light  shapes  forth  a  Bard,  that  shade  a  Chief. 



HOPE  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast, 

Children  of  Summer !  Ye  fresh  Flowers  that  brave 

What  Summer  here  escapes  not,  the  fierce  wave, 

And  whole  artillery  of  the  western  blast, 

Battering  the  Temple's  front,  its  long-drawn  nave  5 

Smiting,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last. 

But  ye,  bright  Flowers,  on  frieze  and  architrave 

11  so  1837:  flashing  upwards  to  its  MS.,  1835 
XXX.  11  saw  MS.,  1835 


Survive,  and  once  again  the  Pile  stands  fast : 

Calm  as  the  Universe,  from  specular  towers 

Of  heaven  contemplated  by  Spirits  pure  10 

With  mute  astonishment,  it  stands  sustained 

Through  every  part  in  symmetry,  to  endure, 

Unhurt,  the  assault  of  Time  with  all  his  hours, 

As  the  supreme  Artificer  ordained. 



ON  to  lona ! — What  can  she  afford 

To  us  save  matter  for  a  thoughtful  sigh, 

Heaved  over  ruin  with  stability 

In  urgent  contrast  ?   To  diffuse  the  WORD 

(Thy  Paramount,  mighty  Nature!  and  Time's  Lord)         5 

Her  Temples  rose,  'mid  pagan  gloom ;  but  why, 

Even  for  a  moment,  has  our  verse  deplored 

Their  wrongs,  since  they  fulfilled  their  destiny  ? 

And  when,  subjected  to  a  common  doom 

Of  mutability,  those  far-famed  Piles  10 

Shall  disappear  from  both  the  sister  Isles, 

lona's  Saints,  forgetting  not  past  days, 

Garlands  shall  wear  of  amaranthine  bloom, 

While  heaven's  vast  sea  of  voices  chants  their  praise. 



(Upon  Landing.) 

How  sad  a  welcome !  To  each  voyager 
Some  ragged  child  holds  up  for  sale  a  store 
Of  wave-worn  pebbles,  pleading  on  the  shore 
Where  once  came  monk  and  nun  with  gentle  stir, 

XXXI.  11-12  so  1840: 

Suns  and  their  systems,  diverse  yet  sustained 
In  symmetry,  and  fashioned  to  endure,  MS.,  1835-8 
13  the  worst  assaults  of  hostile  Powers    C          14  Artificer]  Geometer  MS. 

XXXII.  9-1 1  And  when  the  wonders  of  the  Sister  Isles 

Shall  disappear,  sharing  the  common  doom, 
To  the  last  remnant  of  the  several  Piles  MS. 

XXXIII.  1-3  so  1837:  With  earnest  look,  to  every  voyager  etc.  as  text  (but 
his  for  a  in  I.  2)     1835 

With  outstretched  hands,  round  every  voyager 

Press  ragged  children,  each  to  supplicate 

A  price  for  wave -worn  pebbles  on  his  plate,  MS. 


Blessings  to  give,  news  ask,  or  suit  prefer.  5 

Yet  is  yon  neat  trim  church  a  grateful  speck 

Of  novelty  amid  the  sacred  wreck 

Strewn  far  and  wide.  Think,  proud  Philosopher! 

Fallen  though  she  be,  this  Glory  of  the  west, 

Still  on  her  sons  the  beams  of  mercy  shine ;  10 

And  '  'hopes,  perhaps  more  heavenly  bright  than  thine, 

A  grace  by  thee  unsought  and  unpossest, 

A  faith  more  fixed,  a  rapture  more  divine 

Shall  gild  their  passage  to  eternal  rest." 


[See  Martin's  Voyage  among  the  Western  Isles.] 
HEBE  on  their  knees  men  swore :  the  stones  were  black, 
Black  in  the  people's  minds  and  words,  yet  they 
Were  at  that  time,  as  now,  in  colour  grey. 
But  what  is  colour,  if  upon  the  rack 

Of  conscience  souls  are  placed  by  deeds  that  lack  5 

Concord  with  oaths  ?   What  differ  night  and  day 
Then,  when  before  the  Perjured  on  his  way 
Hell  opens,  and  the  heavens  in  vengeance  crack 
Above  his  head  uplifted  in  vain  prayer 
To  Saint,  or  Fiend,  or  to  the  Godhead  whom  10 

He  had  insulted — Peasant,  King,  or  Thane  ? 
Fly  where  the  culprit  may,  guilt  meets  a  doom ; 
And,  from  invisible  worlds  at  need  laid  bare, 
Come  links  for  social  order's  awful  chain. 


HOMEWARD  we  turn.  Isle  of  Columba's  Cell, 

Where  Christian  piety's  soul-cheering  spark 

(Kindled  from  Heaven  between  the  light  and  dark 

Of  time)  shone  like  the  morning-star,  farewell ! — 

And  fare  thee  well,  to  Fancy  visible,  5 

Remote  St.  Kilda,  lone  and  loved  sea-mark 

6  Yet  is   1837:  But  see  MS.,  1835        7  the    1837:  this  MS.,  1835         8  so 
1837:  Nay  spare  thy  scorn,  haughty  MS.,  1835 
XXXV.  5-6  so  1837: 

Remote  St.  Kilda,  art  thou  visible  ? 

No — but  farewell  to  thee,  beloved  sea-mark     1836 


For  many  a  voyage  made  in  her  swift  bark, 

When  with  more  hues  than  in  the  rainbow  dwell 

Thou  a  mysterious  intercourse  dost  hold, 

Extracting  from  clear  skies  and  air  serene,  10 

And  out  of  sun- bright  waves,  a  lucid  veil, 

That  thickens,  spreads,  and,  mingling  fold  with  fold, 

Makes  known,  when  thou  no  longer  canst  be  seen, 

Thy  whereabout,  to  warn  the  approaching  sail. 



Per  me  si  va  nella  Citta  dolente. 
WE  have  not  passed  into  a  doleful  City, 
We  who  were  led  to-day  down  a  grim  dell, 
By  some  too  boldly  named  "the  Jaws  of  Hell:" 
Where  be  the  wretched  ones,  the  sights  for  pity  ? 
These  crowded  streets  resound  no  plaintive  ditty : —  5 

As  from  the  hive  where  bees  in  summer  dwell, 
Sorrow  seems  here  excluded  ;  and  that  knell, 
It  neither  damps  the  gay,  nor  checks  the  witty. 
Alas !  too  busy  Rival  of  old  Tyre, 

Whose  merchants  Princes  were,  whose  decks  were  thrones  ;io 
Soon  may  the  punctual  sea  in  vain  respire 
To  serve  thy  need,  in  union  with  that  Clyde 
Whose  nursling  current  brawls  o'er  mossy  stones, 
The  poor,  the  lonely,  herdsman's  joy  and  pride. 


"THERE!"  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half  concealed, 
"Is  Mosgiel  Farm ;  and  that's  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy."   Far  and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried  5 

5-10  Adieu,  remote  St.  Kilda,  visible 

To  Fancy  only,  a  beloved  sea-mark 
For  many  etc.  as  text 

Adieu  to  thee,  and  all  that  with  thee  dwell 
Simplest  of  humankind.   Fair  to  behold 
Thou  art,  extracting  from  clear  skies  serene  MS. 
7  her  swift     1837:  Fancy's  1835 

12  That   spreads,  and  intermingling  MS.  14  to   guide  the  passing 

sail  MS. 

XXXVI.  9  so  1837:  Too  busy  Mart!  thus  fared  it  with  old  Tyre  MS.,  1835 

XXXVII.  MS.  gives  the  title  Burns'  Daisy 


Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose ; 

And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 

Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 

Beneath  "the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone" 

Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower  10 

Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 

Have  passed  away ;  less  happy  than  the  One 

That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 

The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 



EDEN  !  till  now  thy  beauty  had  I  viewed 

By  glimpses  only,  and  confess  with  shame 

That  verse  of  mine,  whatever  its  varying  mood, 

Repeats  but  once  the  sound  of  thy  sweet  name : 

Yet  fetched  from  Paradise  that  honour  came,  5 

Rightfully  borne  ;  for  Nature  gives  thee  flowers 

That  have  no  rivals  among  British  bowers ; 

And  thy  bold  rocks  are  worthy  of  their  fame. 

Measuring  thy  course,  fair  Stream !  at  length  I  pay 

To  my  life's  neighbour  dues  of  neighbourhood ;  10 

But  I  have  traced  thee  on  thy  winding  way 

With  pleasure  sometimes  by  this  thought  restrained — 

For  things  far  off  we  toil,  while  many  a  good 

Not  sought,  because  too  near,  is  never  gained. 



(by  Nollekens), 
In  Wetheral  Church,  near  Corby,  on  the  banks  of  the  Eden. 

STRETCHED  on  the  dying  Mother's  lap,  lies  dead 

Her  new-born  Babe ;  dire  ending  of  bright  hope ! 

But  Sculpture  here,  with  the  divinest  scope 

Of  luminous  faith,  heavenward  hath  raised  that  head 

So  patiently ;  and  through  one  hand  has  spread  5 

A  touch  so  tender  for  the  insensate  Child — 

(Earth's  lingering  love  to  parting  reconciled, 

XXXVIII.  13  so  1845 :  That  things  far  off  are  toiled  for,  while  a  good  MS., 
1835-8:  That  for  things  etc.  as  text     1840-3  14  never  1840:  seldom 
MS.,  1835-8 

XXXIX.  2  ending  1845:  issue  MS.,  1835-43  3-4  with  so  divine  a 
scope  Embodies  truth,   MS. 


Brief  parting,  for  the  spirit  is  all  but  fled) — 

That  we,  who  contemplate  the  turns  of  life 

Through  this  still  medium,  are  consoled  and  cheered ;     10 

Feel  with  the  Mother,  think  the  severed  Wife 

Is  less  to  be  lamented  than  revered ; 

And  own  that  Art,  triumphant  over  strife 

And  pain,  hath  powers  to  Eternity  endeared. 



TRANQUILLITY  !  the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou 

In  heathen  schools  of  philosophic  lore ; 

Heart-stricken  by  stern  destiny  of  yore 

The  Tragic  Muse  thee  served  with  thoughtful  vow ; 

And  what  of  hope  Elysium  could  allow  5 

Was  fondly  seized  by  Sculpture,  to  restore 

Peace  to  the  Mourner.   But  when  He  who  wore 

The  crown  of  thorns  around  his  bleeding  brow 

Warmed  our  sad  being  with  celestial  light, 

Then  Arts,  which  still  had  drawn  a  softening  grace          10 

From  shadowy  fountains  of  the  Infinite, 

Communed  with  that  Idea  face  to  face : 

And  move  around  it  now  as  planets  run, 

Each  in  its  orbit  round  the  central  Sun. 



THE  floods  are  roused,  and  will  not  soon  be  weary ; 
Down  from  the  Pennine  Alps1  how  fiercely  sweeps 
CROGLIN,  the  stately  Eden's  tributary! 
1  The  chain  of  Crossfell. 

10  consoled]  inspired  MS. 

XL.  No  title  in  1835          1  the  sovereign]  prime  end  and  corr.  to  the  para- 
mount MS.  3  In  quest  of  thee  did  Science  dive  and  soar  MS. 
5—6  And  Sculpture  fondly  laboured  to  endow  (strove  to  re -endow) 

Man  with  lost  rights  and  honour  to  restore  MS. 

7  so  1838:  Peace  to  the  Mourner's  [his  troubled    MS.]  soul,  but  He  who 
wore     1835-7 
8-9  so  1840: 

The  crown  of  thorns  had  from  a  bleeding  brow 

Through  our  sad  being  shed  his  glorious  light     1838;    1835-7  as  text 
but  his  glorious  for  celestial.          9  Brought  doubted  Immortality  to  light 
corr.  to  Poured  thro *  the  mists  of  being  ( bewildering  mists  a )  glorious  light  MS . 
12-13  Were  urged  and  found  to  move  with  steadier  pace 
Along  their  courses  as  the  etc.  MS. 


He  raves,  or  through  some  moody  passage  creeps 

Plotting  new  mischief — out  again  he  leaps  5 

Into  broad  light,  and  sends,  through  regions  airy, 

That  voice  which  soothed  the  Nuns  while  on  the  steeps 

They  knelt  in  prayer,  or  sang  to  blissful  Mary. 

That  union  ceased:  then,  cleaving  easy  walks 

Through  crags,  and  smoothing  paths  beset  with  danger,  10 

Came  studious  Taste ;  and  many  a  pensive  stranger 

Dreams  on  the  banks,  and  to  the  river  talks. 

What  change  shall  happen  next  to  Nunnery  Dell  ? 

Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Railway,  tell ! 



MOTIONS  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war 

With  old  poetic  feeling,  not  for  this, 

Shall  ye,  by  Poets  even,  be  judged  amiss! 

Nor  shall  your  presence,  howsoe'er  it  mar 

The  loveliness  of  Nature,  prove  a  bar  5 

To  the  Mind's  gaining  that  prophetic  sense 

Of  future  change,  that  point  of  vision,  whence 

May  be  discovered  what  in  soul  ye  are. 

In  spite  of  all  that  beauty  may  disown 

In  your  harsh  features,  Nature  doth  embrace  10 

Her  lawful  offspring  in  Man's  art ;  and  Time, 

Pleased  with  your  triumphs  o'er  his  brother  Space, 

Accepts  from  your  bold  hands  the  proffered  crown 

Of  hope,  and  smiles  on  you  with  cheer  sublime. 



[Composed  1821.— Published  1822;  ed.  1827.] 
A  WEIGHT  of  awe,  not  easy  to  be  borne, 
Fell  suddenly  upon  my  Spirit — cast 
From  the  dread  bosom  of  the  unknown  past, 

XLI.  6-8  Seeking  in  vain  broad  light,  and  regions  airy 

But  with  that  voice  which  once  high  on  the  steeps 
Mingled  with  vespers,  sung  to  blissful  Mary  MS. 
XLIII.   1  awe]  woe  MS.  corr.  easy]  easily     MS. 

2-7  Hath  sometimes  fallen  on  my  bosom  cast 

corr.  to 
And  loth  to  be  removed  is  sometimes  cast 


When  first  I  saw  that  family  forlorn. 

Speak  Thou,  whose  massy  strength  and  stature  scorn         5 

The  power  of  years — pre-eminent,  and  placed 

Apart,  to  overlook  the  circle  vast — 

Speak,  Giant-mother !  tell  it  to  the  Morn 

While  she  dispels  the  cumbrous  shades  of  Night ; 

Let  the  Moon  hear,  emerging  from  a  cloud ;  10 

At  whose  behest  uprose  on  British  ground 

That  Sisterhood,  in  hieroglyphic  round 

Forth-shadowing,  some  have  deemed,  the  infinite 

The  inviolable  God,  that  tames  the  proud  I1 



LOWTHBR!  in  thy  majestic  Pile  are  seen 
Cathedral  pomp  and  grace,  in  apt  accord 
With  the  baronial  castle's  sterner  mien ; 
Union  significant  of  God  adored, 

And  charters  won  and  guarded  by  the  sword  5 

Of  ancient  honour ;  whence  that  goodly  state 
Of  polity  which  wise  men  venerate, 
And  will  maintain,  if  God  his  help  afford. 
Hourly  the  democratic  torrent  swells ; 
1  See  Note. 

Upon  my  bosom  from  the  unknown  past 
When  I  beheld  that  sisterhood  forlorn 
With  [And]  Her  sole  standing  among  yellow  corn 
In  fearless  height  preeminent  and  placed 
As  if  to  overlook  the  circle  vast  MSS. 

4  family    1837:  Sisterhood    1822-32  5  Speak  Thou    1837:  And  Her 

1827-32     And  Her  whos,e  strength  and  stature  seem  to  scorn     1822          8 
Speak  giant  mother  to  the  dawning  morn  MS.  1 
9-11  Let  the  moon  hear,  emerging  from  a  cloud 
The  truth  disclosed  to  guide  our  steps  aright 

Or  be  at  least  the  mystery  unbound  MS.  1,  MS.  2  as  text  but  Lll  The 
truths  disclosed,  the  mystery  unbound 

11-13  so  1837;  so  1827-32,  but  L  12  Thy  progeny  for  That  Sisterhood; 
When,  how,  and  wherefore,  rose  on  British  ground 
That  wondrous  Monument,  whose  mystic  round 
Forth  shadows,  some  have  deemed,  to  mortal  sight    1822 
XLIV.  No  title  in  1835;   Lowther  Castle  MS. 
1-2  in  thy  magnificence  are  seen 

Shapes  of  cathedral  pomp  that  well  accord    MS. 
9  Hourly]*  But  high^  MS. 


For  airy  promises  and  hopes  suborned  10 

The  strength  of  backward-looking  thoughts  is  scorned. 
Fall  if  ye  must,  ye  Towers  and  Pinnacles, 
With  what  ye  symbolise ;  authentic  Story 
Will  say,  Ye  disappeared  with  England's  Glory ! 


"Magistratus  indicat  virum." 
LONSDALE  !  it  were  unworthy  of  a  Guest, 
Whose  heart  with  gratitude  to  thee  inclines, 
If  he  should  speak,  by  fancy  touched,  of  signs 
On  thy  Abode  harmoniously  imprest, 
Yet  be  unmoved  with  wishes  to  attest  5 

How  in  thy  mind  and  moral  frame  agree 
Fortitude,  and  that  Christian  Charity 
Which,  filling,  consecrates  the  human  breast. 
And  if  the  Motto  on  thy  'scutcheon  teach 
With  truth,  "THE  MAGISTRACY  SHOWS  THE  MAN  ;"          10 
That  searching  test  thy  public  course  has  stood ; 
As  will  be  owned  alike  by  bad  and  good, 
Soon  as  the  measuring  of  life's  little  span 
Shall  place  thy  virtues  out  of  Envy's  reach.1 


[Composed  1828?. — Published  1835.] 
LIST,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph's  Tower2 

At  eve ;  how  softly  then 
Doth  Aira-force,  that  torrent  hoarse, 

Speak  from  the  woody  glen ! 

1  See  Note. 

2  A  pleasure -house  built  by  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk  upon  the  banks  of 
Ullswater.   FOBCE  is  the  word  used  in  the  Lake  District  for  Waterfall. 

XLV.  2—7  One  chiefly  well  aware  how  much  he  owes 

To  thy  regard,  to  speak  in  verse  or  prose 

Of  types  and  signs  harmoniously  imprest 

On  thy  Abode,  neglecting  to  attest 

That  in  thy  Mansion's  Lord  as  well  agree 

Meekness  and  strength  and  Christian  charity  MS. 
9-11  And  if,  as  thy  armorial  bearings  teach, 

"The  Magistracy  indicates  the  Man,*' 

That  test  thy  life  triumphantly  has  stood ;  MS. 

XL VI.  1    'Tis  sweet  to  stand  by  MSS.  4  Speak]  Sound  MSS. 

917.17  IV  E 


Fit  music  for  a  solemn  vale ! 

And  holier  seems  the  ground 
To  him  who  catches  on  the  gale 
The  spirit  of  a  mournful  tale. 

Embodied  in  the  sound. 

Not  far  from  that  fair  site  whereon  10 

The  Pleasure-house  is  reared, 
As  story  says,  in  antique  days 

A  stern-brow'd  house  appeared ; 
Foil  to  a  Jewel  rich  in  light 

There  set,  and  guarded  well ;  15 

Cage  for  a  Bird  of  plumage  bright, 
Sweet- voiced,  nor  wishing  for  a  flight 

Beyond  her  native  dell. 

To  win  this  bright  Bird  from  her  cage, 

To  make  this  Gem  their  own,  20 

Came  Barons  bold,  with  store  of  gold, 

And  Knights  of  high  renown ; 
But  one  She  prized,  and  only  one ; 

Sir  Eglamore  was  he ; 

Full  happy  season,  when  was  known,  25 

Ye  Dales  and  Hills !  to  you  alone 

Their  mutual  loyalty — 

Known  chiefly,  Aira !  to  thy  glen, 

Thy  brook,  and  bowers  of  holly ; 
Where  Passion  caught  what  Nature  taught,  30 

That  all  but  love  is  folly ; 
Where  Fact  with  Fancy  stooped  to  play ; 

Doubt  came  not,  nor  regret — 
To  trouble  hours  that  winged  their  way, 
As  if  through  "an  immortal  day  35 

Whose  sun  could  never  set. 

But  in  old  times  Love  dwelt  not  long 

Sequester'd  with  repose ; 
Best  throve  the  fire  of  chaste  desire, 

5—7  To  rudest  shepherd  of  the  vale 

The  spot  seems  fairy  ground ; 

For  he  can  catch  upon  the  gale  MSS. 

8  a  mournful]  an  ancient  MSS.          19  bright]  sweet  MSS.          26  Dales] 
streams  MSS.  27  Their  true  love's  sanctity  MS.  28-36  not 

in  MSS.  37  old  times]  that  age  MSS. 


Fanned  by  the  breath  of  foes.  40 

"A  conquering  lance  is  beauty's  test, 

And  proves  the  Lover  true ;" 
So  spake  Sir  Eglamore,  and  pressed 
The  drooping  Emma  to  his  breast, 

And  looked  a  blind  adieu.  45 

They  parted. — Well  with  him  it  fared 

Through  wide-spread  regions  errant ; 
A  knight  of  proof  in  love's  behoof, 

The  thirst  of  fame  his  warrant : 
And  She  her  happiness  can  build  50 

On  woman's  quiet  hours ; 

Though  faint,  compared  with  spear  and  shield, 
The  solace  beads  and  masses  yield, 

And  needlework  and  flowers. 

Yet  blest  was  Emma  when  she  heard  55 

Her  Champion's  praise  recounted ; 
Though  brain  would  swim,  and  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  high  her  blushes  mounted ; 
Or  when  a  bold  heroic  lay 

She  warbled  from  full  heart ;  60 

Delightful  blossoms  for  the  May 
Of  absence !  but  they  will  not  stay, 

Born  only  to  depart. 

Hope  wanes  with  her,  while  lustre  fills 

Whatever  path  he  chooses ;  65 

As  if  his  orb,  that  owns  no  curb, 

Received  the  light  hers  loses. 
He  comes  not  back ;  an  ampler  space 

Requires  for  nobler  deeds ; 

He  ranges  on  from  place  to  place,  70 

Till  of  his  doings  is  no  trace, 

But  what  her  fancy  breeds. 

His  fame  may  spread,  but  in  the  past 

Her  spirit  finds  its  centre ; 
Clear  sight  She  has  of  what  he  was,  75 

And  that  would  now  content  her. 

40  When  fanned  by  MSS.  57  brain  .  .  .  eyes]  her  brain  .  .  .  her  eyee 



"Still  is  he  my  devoted  Knight  ?" 

The  tear  in  answer  flows ; 
Month  falls  on  month  with  heavier  weight ; 
Day  sickens  round  her,  and  the  night  80 

Is  empty  of  repose. 

In  sleep  She  sometimes  walked  abroad, 

Deep  sighs  with  quick  words  blending, 
Like  that  pale  Queen  whose  hands  are  seen 

With  fancied  spots  contending ;  85 

But  she  is  innocent  of  blood, — 

The  moon  is  not  more  pure 
That  shines  aloft,  while  through  the  wood 
She  thrids  her  way,  the  sounding  Flood 

Her  melancholy  lure !  90 

While  'mid  the  fern-brake  sleeps  the  doe, 

And  owls  alone  are  waking, 
In  white  arrayed,  glides  on  the  Maid 

The  downward  pathway  taking, 
That  leads  her  to  the  torrent's  side  95 

And  to  a  holly  bower ; 
By  whom  on  this  still  night  descried  ? 
By  whom  in  that  lone  place  espied  ? 

By  thee,  Sir  Eglamore ! 

A  wandering  Ghost,  so  thinks  the  Knight,  100 

His  coming  step  has  thwarted, 
Beneath  the.  boughs  that  heard  their  vows. 

Within  whose  shade  they  parted. 
Hush,  hush,  the  busy  Sleeper  see ! 

Perplexed  her  fingers  seem,  105 

As  if  they  from  the  holly  tree 
Green  twigs  would  pluck,  as  rapidly 

Flung  from  her  to  the  stream. 

What  means  the  Spectre  ?  Why  intent 

To  violate  the  Tree,  no 

77-8  "No  more,  perchance,  my  own  true  Knight 

He  is" — that  phantom  grows ;   MSS. 

82  In  troubled  sleep  she  walked  MSS.  95-6  Nor  stopped  till  near 

.  .  .  She  reached  MSS.  99  By  thee]  The  Knight  MSS. 

102-3  On  ground  that  heard  their  plighted  vows, 
The  ground  on  which  MSS. 


Thought  Eglainore,  by  which  I  swore 

Unfading  constancy  ? 
Here  am  I,  and  to-morrow's  sun, 

To  her  I  left,  shall  prove 

That  bliss  is  ne'er  so  surely  won  115 

As  when  a  circuit  has  been  run 

Of  valour,  truth,  and  love. 

So  from  the  spot  whereon  he  stood, 

He  moved  with  stealthy  pace ; 
And,  drawing  nigh,  with  his  living  eye,  120 

He  recognised  the  face ; 
And  whispers  caught,  and  speeches  small, 

Some  to  the  green-leaved  tree, 
Some  muttered  to  the  torrent-fall ; — 
"Roar  on,  and  bring  him  with  thy  call ;  125 

I  heard,  and  so  may  He!" 

Soul-shattered  was  the  Knight,  nor  knew 

If  Emma's  Ghost  it  were, 
Or  boding  Shade,  or  if  the  Maid 

Her  very  self  stood  there.  130 

He  touched ;  what  followed  who  shall  tell  ? 

The  soft  touch  snapped  the  thread 
Of  slumber — shrieking  back  she  fell, 
And  the  Stream  whirled  her  down  the  dell 

Along  its  foaming  bed.  135 

In  plunged  the  Knight ! — when  on  firm  ground 

The  rescued  Maiden  lay, 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  blissful  light, 

Confusion  passed  away ; 
She  heard,  ere  to  the  throne  of  grace  140 

Her  faithful  Spirit  flew, 
His  voice — beheld  his  speaking  face ; 
And,  dying,  from  his  own  embrace, 

She  felt  that  he  was  true. 

So  was  he  reconciled  to  life :  145 

Brief  words  may  speak  the  rest ; 

122  caught]  heard  MSS. 

129-30  Or  if  the  Maid  by  sleep  betrayed 

In  very  life  stood  there.  MSS. 
1 36—46  In  plunged  the  Knight ! — he  strove  in  vain 

Brief  words  etc.   MSS. 


Within  the  dell  he  built  a  cell, 

And  there  was  Sorrow's  guest ; 
In  hermits'  weeds  repose  he  found, 

From  vain  temptations  free ;  150 

Beside  the  torrent  dwelling — bound 
By  one  deep  heart- controlling  sound, 

And  awed  to  piety. 

Wild  stream  of  Aira,  hold  thy  course, 

Nor  fear  memorial  lays,  155 

Where  clouds  that  spread  in  solemn  shade, 

Are  edged  with  golden  rays ! 
Dear  art  thou  to  the  light  of  heaven, 

Though  minister  of  sorrow ; 

Sweet  is  thy  voice  at  pensive  even ;  160 

And  thou,  in  lovers'  hearts  forgiven, 

Shalt  take  thy  place  with  Yarrow ! 



Hallsteads,  Ullswater. 

NOT  in  the  mines  beyond  the  western  main, 
You  say,  Cordelia,  was  the  metal  sought, 
Which  a  fine  skill,  of  Indian  growth,  has  wrought 
Into  this  flexible  yet  faithful  Chain ; 

Nor  is  it  silver  of  romantic  Spain ;  5 

But  from  our  loved  Helvellyn's  depths  was  brought, 
Our  own  domestic  mountain.   Thing  and  thought 
Mix  strangely ;  trifles  light,  and  partly  vain, 
Can  prop,  as  you  have  learnt,  our  nobler  being : 
Yes,  Lady,  while  about  your  neck  is  wound  10 

(Your  casual  glance  oft  meeting)  this  bright  cord, 
What  witchery,  for  pure  gifts  of  inward  seeing, 
Lurks  in  it,  Memory's  Helper,  Fancy's  Lord, 
For  precious  tremblings  in  your  bosom  found ! 


MOST  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 

To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 

158  to]  in  MS. 

XLVII.  2  so  1845:  You  tell  me,  Delia!    1835-43  5-6  so  1846:  Spain 

You  say,  but  from  Helvellyn's     1835-43 

XLVIII.  Title  CONCLUSION     1835-43 


While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 

Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene,  5 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 

Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 

Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse :  10 

With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, 

The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 

Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 





[Composed  1798. — Published  1798.] 

"WHY,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away  ? 

" Where  are  your  books  ? — that  light  bequeathed  5 

To  Beings  else  forlorn  and  blind ! 

Up !  up !  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 

From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"You  look  round  on  your  Mother  Earth, 

As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ;  10 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 

And  none  had  lived  before  you!" 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 

When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 

To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake,  15 

And  thus  I  made  reply  : 

"The  eye — it  cannot  choose  but  see; 

We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 

Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 

Against  or  with  our  will.  20 

"Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress ; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum  25 

Of  things  for  ever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking  ? 

" — Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 

Conversing  as  I  may,  3° 

I  sit  upon  this  old  grey  stone, 

And  dream  my  time  away." 



[Composed  1798. — Published  1798.] 

UP  !  up !  my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books ; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double : 
Up !  up !  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head,  5 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books !  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife : 

Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet,  10 

How  sweet  his  music !  on  my  life, 

There 's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings ! 

He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher: 

Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things,  15 

Let  Nature  be  your  Teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 

Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 

Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 

Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness.  20 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ;  25 

Our  meddling  intellect 

Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things : — 

We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 

Close  up  those  barren  leaves ;  30 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 

That  watches  and  receives. 

II.  1-4  so  1820:  11.  1-2  and  3-4  transposed    1798-1815  14  He,  too,  is 

1815     And  he  is     1798-1805         30  those     1837:  these     1798-1832 



[Composed  1798.— Published  1798.] 
I  HEARD  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 
To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link  5 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 
Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths ;  10 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 
The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure : — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made,  15 

It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 
The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there.  20 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 



[Composed  probably  September  or  October,  1800. — Published  1800,] 

I  MARVEL  how  Nature  could  ever  find  space 

For  so  many  strange  contrasts  in  one  human  face : 

There 's  thought  and  no  thought,  and  there 's  paleness  and  bloom 

And  bustle  and  sluggishness,  pleasure  and  gloom. 

III.  9  green  1837  sweet  1798-1832 

21-2  so  1837:  If  I  these  thoughts  may  not  prevent, 

If  such  be  of  my  creed  the  plan    1798-1815 :  1820  aa  1837  but 
in  21  is  for  be;  21  From  Heaven  if  this  belief  be  sent    1827-32 

IV.  2  so  1837 :  For  all  the  expression  (the  things  and  the  nothings)  you  see 
in  his  MS.:  For  the  weight  and  the  levity  seen  in  his  1800      4  sluggishness] 
indolence  MS. 


There 's  weakness,  and  strength  both  redundant  and  vain ;      5 
Such  strength  as,  if  ever  affliction  and  pain 
Could  pierce  through  a  temper  that 's  soft  to  disease, 
Would  be  rational  peace — a  philosopher's  ease. 

There  's  indifference,  alike  when  he  fails  or  succeeds, 

And  attention  full  ten  times  as  much  as  there  needs ;  10 

Pride  where  there 's  no  envy,  there  's  so  much  of  joy ; 

And  mildness,  and  spirit  both  forward  and  coy. 

There 's  freedom,  and  sometimes  a  diffident  stare 
Of  shame  scarcely  seeming  to  know  that  she  's  there, 
There  's  virtue,  the  title  it  surely  may  claim,  15 

Yet  wants  heaven  knows  what  to  be  worthy  the  name. 

This  picture  from  nature  may  seem  to  depart, 

Yet  the  Man  would  at  once  run  away  with  your  heart ; 

And  I  for  five  centuries  right  gladly  would  be 

Such  an  odd  such  a  kind  happy  creature  as  he.  20 


[Composed  1798.— Published  1798.] 

IT  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March : 
Each  minute  sweeter  than  before, 
The  redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air,  5 

Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  sister !  ('tis  a  wish  of  mine) 

Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done,  10 

Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign ; 

Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

7-8  Could  pierce  through  his  temper  as  soft  as  a  fleece 

Would  surely  be  fortitude,  sister  of  peace.  MS. 

9-12,  13-16  transposed  in  MS. 

17  so  1837  This  picture,  you  say,  has  not  nature  nor  art   MS.;   What  a 

picture!  'tis  drawn  without  nature  or  art     1800 

V.  9  My]  Dear  C 


Edward  will  come  with  you ; — and,  pray, 

Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress ; 

And  bring  no  book :  for  this  one  day  15 

Well  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 

Our  living  calendar : 

We  from  to-day,  my  Friend,  will  date 

The  opening  of  the  year.  20 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth : 
— It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more  25 

Than  years  of  toiling  reason : 

Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 

The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 

Which  they  shall  long  obey :  3° 

We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 

Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 

About,  below,  above, 

Well  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls :  35 

They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  Sister!  come,  I  pray, 

With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress ; 

And  bring  no  book :  for  this  one  day 

Well  give  to  idleness.  40 



With  an  incident  in  which  he  was  concerned. 
[Composed  1798.— Published  1798.] 

IN  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 
An  old  Man  dwells,  a  little  man, — 
Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 

26  so  1837:  Than  fifty  years  of  reason    1798-1832  29  will    1820  may 




Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived  5 

A  running  huntsman  merry ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee  10 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days,  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse  15 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind ; 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 

He  reeled,  and  was  stone-blind.  20 

And  still  there  's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices ! 

But,  oh  the  heavy  change ! — bereft  25 

Of  health,  strength,  friends,  and  kindred,  see! 

VI.  1-56  so  1837 


In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, 
I've  heard  he  once  was  tall. 
Of  years  he  has  upon  his  back, 
No  doubt,  a  burthen  weighty ; 
He  says  he  is  three  score  and  ten, 
But  others  say  he  's  eighty. 


A  long  blue  livery -coat  has  he, 
That 's  fair  behind,  and  fair  before ; 
Yet,  meet  him  where  you  will,  you 


At  once  that  he  is  poor. 
Full  five  and  twenty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry ; 
And,  though  he  has  but  one  eye  left, 
His  cheek  is  like  a  cherry. 


No  man  like  him  the  horn  could 


And  no  man  was  so  full  of  glee ; 
To  say  the  least,  four  counties  round 
Had  heard  of  Simon  Lee ; 
His  master 's  dead,  and  no  one  now 
Dwells  in  the  hall  of  Ivor ; 
Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead ; 
He  is  the  sole  survivor. 


His  hunting  feats  have  him  bereft 
Of  his  right  eye,  as  you  may  see : 
And  then,  what  limbs  those  feats 

have  left 

To  poor  old  Simon  Lee ! 
He  has  no  son,  he  has  no  child, 
His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 
Upon  the  village  common. 


Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty. 

His  Master 's  dead, — and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor ;  30 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead ; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick ; 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 

Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick ;  35 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  Common.  40 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 

Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 

A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 

Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 

This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath  45 

Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger ; 

But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 

Which  he  can  till  no  longer  ? 

5.  7. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick,  Old  Ruth  works  out  of  doors  with 

His  little  body  *s  half  awry  him, 

His  ancles  they  are  swoln  and  thick ;  And  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry.  For  she,  not  over  stout  of  limb, 

When  he  was  young  he  little  knew  Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

Of  husbandry,  or  tillage ;  And  though  you  with  your  utmost 

And    now    he's    forced    to    work  skill 

though  weak,  From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

— The  weakest  in  the  village.  Alas!  'tis  very  little,  all 

-  Which  they  can  do  between  them. 

6.  * 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  8. 

behind ;  Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 

And  often,  ere  the  race  was  done,  Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 

He  reeled  and  was  stone  blind.  A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 

And  still  there 's  something  in  the  &*Q  poorest  of  the  poor. 

world  This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices;  Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  But  what  avails  the  land  to  them, 

out,  When  they  can  till  no  longer  ? 
He  dearly  loves  their  voices ! 
1798:  for  variants  between  1798  and  1843  v.  notes  p.  413 


Oft,  working  by  her  Husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do ;  50 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

'Tis  little,  very  little — all  55 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 

For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell.  60 

My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 

Some  tale  will  be  related. 

0  Reader !  had  you  in  your  mind  65 

Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  Reader !  you  would  find 

A  tale  in  every  thing. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it :  70 

It  is  no  tale ;  but,  should  you  think, 

Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 

This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could 

To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree,  75 

A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 

The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand ; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavour, 

That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 

He  might  have  worked  for  ever.  80 

"You're  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool,"  to  him  I  said ; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  proffered  aid. 

60  so  1815:  His  poor  old  ancles  swell    1798-1805 

63  so  1820:  And  I'm  afraid  etc.    1798-1815  70  so  1820:  I  hope  you'll 

etc.     1798-1815  75  so  1815:  About  the  root  etc.    1798-1805 


I  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow  85 

The  tangled  root  I  severed, 

At  which  the  poor  old  Man  so  long 

And  vainly  had  endeavoured. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 

And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run  90 

So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 

They  never  would  have  done. 

— I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 

With  coldness  still  returning ; 

Alas !  the  gratitude  of  men  95 

Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 


[Composed  1799. — Published  1800.] 

The  Reader  must  be  apprised  that  the  Stoves  in  North  Germany  generally 
have  the  impression  of  a  galloping  horse  upon  them,  this  being  part  of 
the  Brunswick  Arms. 

A  PLAGUE  on  your  languages,  German  and  Norse ! 

Let  me  have  the  song  of  the  kettle ; 

And  the  tongs  and  the  poker,  instead  of  that  horse 

That  gallops  away  with  such  fury  and  force 

On  this  dreary  dull  plate  of  black  metal.  5 

See  that  Fly, — a  disconsolate  creature !  perhaps 

A  child  of  the  field  or  the  grove ; 

And,  sorrow  for  him !  the  dull  treacherous  heat 

Has  seduced  the  poor  fool  from  his  winter  retreat, 

And  he  creeps  to  the  edge  of  my  stove.  10 

Alas !  how  he  fumbles  about  the  domains 

Which  this  comfortless  oven  environ ! 

He  cannot  find  out  in  what  track  he  must  crawl, 

96  Hath     1820:  Has     1798-1815 

VII.   1  plague  on     1820:  fig  for     1800-15 

5/6  Our  earth  is  no  doubt  made  of  excellent  stuff ; 
But  her  pulses  beat  slower  and  slower: 
The  weather  in  Forty  was  cutting  and  rough, 
And  then,  as  Heaven  knows,  the  Glass  stood  low  enough ; 
And  now  it  is  four  degrees  lower.    1800-15 

6  See  that     1820:  Here  's  a     1800-15 


Now  back  to  the  tiles,  then  in  search  of  the  wall, 

And  now  on  the  brink  of  the  iron.  15 

Stock-still  there  he  stands  like  a  traveller  bemazed : 

The  best  of  his  skill  he  has  tried ; 

His  feelers,  methinks,  I  can  see  him  put  forth 

To  the  east  and  the  west,  to  the  south  and  the  north, 

But  he  finds  neither  guide-post  nor  guide.  20 

His  spindles  sink  under  him,  foot,  leg,  and  thigh ! 

His  eyesight  and  hearing  are  lost ; 

Between  life  and  death  his  blood  freezes  and  thaws ; 

And  his  two  pretty  pinions  of  blue  dusky  gauze 

Are  glued  to  his  sides  by  the  frost.  25 

No  brother,  no  mate  has  he  near  him — while  I 

Can  draw  warmth  from  the  cheek  of  my  Love ; 

As  blest  and  as  glad,  in  this  desolate  gloom, 

As  if  green  summer  grass  were  the  floor  of  my  room, 

And  woodbines  were  hanging  above.  30 

Yet,  God  is  my  witness,  thou  small  helpless  Thing ! 

Thy  life  I  would  gladly  sustain 

Till  summer  come  up  from  the  south,  and  with  crowds 

Of  thy  brethren  a  march  thou  should'st  sound  through  the  clouds, 

And  back  to  the  forests  again !  35 


[Composed  1799. — Published  1800.] 

ART  thou  a  Statist  in  the  van 
Of  public  conflicts  trained  and  bred  ? 
— First  learn  to  love  one  living  man ; 
Then  may'st  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

A  Lawyer  art  thou  ? — draw  not  nigh !  5 

Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye, 
The  hardness  of  that  sallow  face. 

14  then  in  search  of   1837 :  and  now  back  to    1800-32  19  to  the  South 

1827:  and  the  South    1 800-20         2 1  His    1 845 :  See !  his    1 800-20 ;  How  his 

1827-37  26  mate    1827:  Friend    1800-20 

VIII.  1  Statist    1837:  Statesman    1800-32          2  conflicts    1837:  business 

1800-32         6  fitter     1820:  other     1800-16 

7-8  so  1820:  The  hardness  of  thy  coward  eye, 

The  falsehood  of  thy  sallow  face.     1800-15 
917.17  IV  F 


Art  them  a  Man  of  purple  cheer  ? 

A  rosy  Man,  right  plump  to  see  ?  10 

Approach ;  yet,  Doctor,  not  too  near, 

This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 

Or  art  thou  one  of  gallant  pride, 

A  Soldier  and  no  man  of  chaff  ? 

Welcome ! — but  lay  thy  sword  aside,  15 

And  lean  upon  a  peasant's  staff. 

Physician  art  thou  ? — one,  all  eyes, 

Philosopher ! — a  fingering  slave, 

One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 

Upon  his  mother's  grave  ?  20 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece, 
O  turn  aside, — and  take,  I  pray, 
That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace, 
Thy  ever-dwindling  soul,  away ! 

A  Moralist  perchance  appears ;  25 

Led,  Heaven  knows  how !  to  this  poor  sod : 
And  he  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears ; 
Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God ; 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul  can  cling 

Nor  form,,  nor  feeling,  great  or  small ;  30 

A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing, 

An  intellectual  All-in-all ! 

Shut  close  the  door ;  press  down  the  latch ; 

Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust ; 

Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch  35 

Near  this  unprofitable  dust. 

But  who  is  He,  with  modest  looks, 

And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  ? 

He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 

A  music  sweeter  than  their  own.  40 

13  so  1820:  Art  thou  a  man  etc.    1800-15  24  so  1837:  Thy  pinpoint 

of  a  soul,    1800-5 :  That  abject  thing,  thy  soul    1815-32  30  or    1837 : 

nor    1800-32  31  self-sufficing    1800,  1815-50:  self-sufficient    1802-5 


He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew, 
Or  fountain  in  a  noon-day  grove ; 
And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth,  45 

Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 
And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 

Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, —  50 

The  hardest  of  a  quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

But  he  is  weak ;  both  Man  and  Boy, 

Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land ; 

Contented  if  he  might  enjoy  55 

The  things  which  others  understand. 

— Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength ; 

Come,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave ! 

Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length ; 

Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave.  60 


[Composed  1802.— Published  1807.] 

BRIGHT  Mower !  whose  home  is  everywhere, 

Bold  in  maternal  Nature's  care, 

And  all  the  long  year  through  the  heir 

Of  joy  and  sorrow ; 

Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee  5 

Some  concord  with  humanity, 
Given  to  no  other  flower  I  see 

The  forest  thorough ! 

Is  it  that  Man  is  soon  deprest  ? 

A  thoughtless  Thing !  who,  once  unblest,  10 

Does  little  on  his  memory  rest, 

IX.  1-3  Confiding  Flower,  by  Nature's  care 

Made  bold, — who,  lodging  here  or  there, 
Art  all  the  long  year  through  the  heir     1837  only 

2  so  1843:  A  Pilgrim  bold  in  Nature's  care  1807-32         3  And  oft,  1827-32 
4  and    1860:  or  1807-45  6   Communion  with  humanity    1837  only 

9  so  1807-20;  1837:  And  wherefore  ?    Man  is  soon  deprest;    1827-32 


Or  on  his  reason, 

And  Thou  would'st  teach  him  how  to  find 
A  shelter  under  every  wind, 
A  hope  for  times  that  are  unkind  15 

And  every  season  ? 

Thou  wander'st  the  wide  world  about, 
Uncheck'd  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt, 
With  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without, 

Yet  pleased  and  willing ;  20 

Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion's  call, 
And  all  things  suffering  from  all, 
Thy  function  apostolical 

In  peace  fulfilling. 



[Composed  1799. — Published  1800.] 

In  the  School  of is  a  tablet,  on  which  are  inscribed,  in  gilt  letters, 

the  Names  of  the  several  persons  who  have  been  Schoolmasters  there 
since  the  foundation  of  the  School,  with  the  time  at  which  they  entered 
upon  and  quitted  their  office.  Opposite  to  one  of  those  Names  the  Author 
wrote  the  following  lines. 

IF  Nature,  for  a  favourite  child, 
In  thee  hath  tempered  so  her  clay, 
That  every  hour  thy  heart  runs  wild, 
Yet  never  once  doth  go  astray, 

Bead  o'er  these  lines ;  and  then  review  5 

This  tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears 

In  such  diversity  of  hue 

Its  history  of  two  hundred  years. 

— When  through  this  little  wreck  of  fame, 

Cipher  and  syllable!  thine  eye  10 

Has  travelled  down  to  Matthew's  name, 

Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 

And,  if  a  sleeping  tear  should  wake, 

Then  be  it  neither  checked  nor  stayed : 

For  Matthew  a  request  I  make  15 

Which  for  himself  he  had  not  made. 

17-24  not  in    1827-32 

X.  MATTHEW  1837:  Lines  written  on  a  tablet  in  a  School    1800 


Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o'er, 

Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool ; 

Far  from  the  chimney's  merry  roar, 

And  murmur  of  the  village  school.  20 

The  sighs  which  Matthew  heaved  were  sighs 
Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness ; 
The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew's  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness. 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  the  secret  cup  25 

Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round, 
It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up — 
He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound. 

— Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould! 

Thou  happy  Soul !  and  can  it  be  3° 

That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold 

Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ? 



[Composed  1799.— Published  1800.] 

WE  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun ; 
And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said, 
"The  will  of  God  be  done!" 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he,  5 

With  hair  of  glittering  grey ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass, 

And  by  the  steaming  rills,  10 

We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 

A  day  among  the  hills. 

"Our  work,"  said  I,  "was  well  begun, 

Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 

Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun,  15 

So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?" 

24  dew    1815:  oil     1800-6  32  to  thee  ?     1805  only 


A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop ; 

And  fixing  still  his  eye 

Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply:  20 

"Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn  25 

Such  colours,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky,  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

"With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave,  3° 

And,  to  the  churchyard  come,  stopped  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale ; 

And  then  she  sang ; — she  would  have  been  35 

A  very  nightingale. 

"Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay ; 

And  yet  I  loved  her  more, 

For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 

I  e'er  had  loved  before.  40 

"And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 
A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

"A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare ;  45 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight ! 

XI.  26-8  so  1802:  And  on  that  slope  of  springing  corn 

The  self-same  crimson  hue 

Fell  from  the  sky  that  April  morn, 

The  same  which  now  I  view!    1800 
29-30  so  1816:  ...  my  silent  sport 

I  plied  by  Derwent's  wave,    1800-5 
31  so  1837;  And  coming  to  the  church,     1800-32 


"No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 

E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free ;  50 

She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 

That  dances  on  the  sea. 

"There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 

Which  I  could  ill  confine ; 

I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again :  55 

And  did  not  wish  her  mine!" 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now, 

Methinks,  I  see  him  stand, 

As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 

Of  wilding  in  his  hand.  60 


[Composed  1799.— Published  1800.] 

WE  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy- two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak,  5 

Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 

And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke, 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

"Now,  Matthew!"  said  I,  "let  us  match 

This  water's  pleasant  tune  10 

With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 

That  suits  a  summer's  noon ; 

"Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 

Sing  here  beneath  the  shade, 

That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes  15 

Which  you  last  April  made!" 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 

The  spring  beneath  the  tree ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  Man  replied, 

The  grey-haired  man  of  glee :  20 

59  a    1827:  his    1800-15 

XII.  9  so  1820:  Now,  Matthew,  let  us  try  to  match     1800-15 


"No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears ; 
How  merrily  it  goes ! 
Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

"And  here,  on  this  delightful  day,  25 

I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

"My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred,  30 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 

Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

"Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay: 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away  35 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

"The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 

Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will.  40 

"With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free : 

"But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws ;  45 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 

We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 

We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

"If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth,  50 

The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own ; 

It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

"My  days,  my  Friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved, 

21  so  1837:  Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers   1800-32 
20/21  Down  to  the  vale  with  eager  speed 

Behold  this  streamlet  run, 

From  subterranean  bondage  freed, 

And  glittering  in  the  sun.    C 

21  No  guide  it  needs,  no  check  it  fears  C  37  amid  leafy     1837:  in 

the  summer     1800-32         38  above     1837:  upon     1800-32 


And  many  love  me !  but  by  none  55 

Am  I  enough  beloved." 

"Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 

The  man  who  thus  complains ! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 

Upon  these  happy  plains ;  60 

"And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 
I'll  be  a  son  to  thee!" 
At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 
"Alas!  that  cannot  be." 

We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side ;  65 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 

Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide  ; 

And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock, 

He  sang  those  witty  rhymes  70 

About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


[Composed  ?.— Published  1807.] 


I  AM  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 

To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk, — 

Of  friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk, 

Or  neighbours,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight : 

And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance,  ladies  bright,        5 

Sons,  mothers,  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk, 

These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with  chalk 

Painted  on  rich  men's  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 

Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long, 

Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire ;  10 

To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim, 

In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 

And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 

Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. 

63  my  hand     1815:  his  hands  MS.,  1800-5 

XIII.  3  Of    1815:  About  MS.,  1807  12  so  1815:  By  my  half-kitchen, 

my  half-parlour  fire  MS.,  1807  14  kettle    1827:  kettle,    1807-20 



"Yet  life,"  you  say,  "is  life ;  we  have  seen  and  see,  15 

And  with  a  living  pleasure  we  describe ; 
And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activity. 
Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee 
Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe."  20 

Even  be  it  so :  yet  still  among  your  tribe, 
Our  daily  world's  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me ! 
Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ;  their  world  lies 
More  justly  balanced ;  partly  at  their  feet, 
And  part  far  from  them: — sweetest  melodies  25 

Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet ; 
Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes, 
He  is  a  Slave ;  the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 


Wings  have  we, — and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We  may  find  pleasure :  wilderness  and  wood,  30 

Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 
Dreams,  books,  are  each  a  world ;  and  books,  we  know, 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good : 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood,          35 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 
There  find  I  personal  themes,  a  plenteous  store, 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I  am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear ; 

Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear, —  40 

The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor ; 
And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 


Nor  can  I  not  believe  but  that  hereby 

Great  gains  are  mine ;  for  thus  I  live  remote 

From  evil-speaking ;  rancour,  never  sought,  45 

Comes  to  me  not ;  malignant  truth,  or  lie. 

37-40  so  1827:  There  do  I  find  a  never-failing  store 

Of  personal  themes,  and  such  as  I  love  best ; 

Matter  etc. 

Two  will  I  mention,  dearer  than  the  rest:     MS..  1807-20 


Hence  have  I  genial  seasons,  hence  have'  I 

Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous  thought: 

And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  boat 

Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably.  50 

Blessings  be  with  them — and  eternal  praise, 

Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares — 

The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  heirs 

Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays ! 

Oh !  might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs,  55 

Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  days. 


[Composed  1846.— Published  1850.] 

DISCOURSE  was  deemed  Man's  noblest  attribute, 

And  written  words  the  glory  of  his  hand ; 

Then  followed  Printing  with  enlarged  command 

For  thought — dominion  vast  and  absolute 

For  spreading  truth,  and  making  love  expand.  5 

Now  prose  and  verse  sunk  into  disrepute 

Must  lacquey  a  dumb  Art  that  best  can  suit 

The  taste  of  this  once-intellectual  Land. 

A  backward  movement  surely  have  we  here, 

From  manhood — back  to  childhood ;  for  the  age —          10 

Back  towards  caverned  life's  first  rude  career. 

Avaunt  this  vile  abuse  of  pictured  page ! 

Must  eyes  be  all  in  all,  the  tongue  and  ear 

Nothing  ?  Heaven  keep  us  from  a  lower  stage  1 



Composed  while  we  were  labouring  together  in  his  pleasure-ground. 
[Composed  (probably)  1806. — Published  1807.] 

SPADE  !  with  which  Wilkinson  hath  tilled  his  lands, 
And  shaped  these  pleasant  walks  by  Emont's  side, 
Thou  art  a  tool  of  honour  in  my  hands ; 
I  press  Thee,  through  the  yielding  soil,  with  pride. 

48  discourse]  desires  MS. 

XIV.   11  Backward  as  far  as  Egypt's  oldest  year  MS. 


Rare  master  has  it  been  thy  lot  to  know ;  5 

Long  hast  Thou  served  a  man  to  reason  true ; 
Whose  life  combines  the  best  of  high  and  low, 
The  labouring  many  and  the  resting  few ; 

Health,  meekness,  ardour,  quietness  secure, 

And  industry  of  body  and  of  mind ;  10 

And  elegant  enjoyments,  that  are  pure 

As  nature  is ; — too  pure  to  be  refined. 

Here  often  hast  Thou  heard  the  Poet  sing 

In  concord  with  his  river  murmuring  by ; 

Or  in  some  silent  field,  while  timid  spring  15 

Is  yet  uncheered  by  other  minstrelsy. 

Who  shall  inherit  Thee  when  death  has  laid 

Low  in  the  darksome  cell  thine  own  dear  lord  ? 

That  man  will  have  a  trophy,  humble  Spade ! 

A  trophy  nobler  than  a  conqueror's  sword.  20 

If  he  be  one  that  feels,  with  skill  to  part 
False  praise  from  true,  or,  greater  from  the  less, 
Thee  will  he  welcome  to  his  hand  and  heart, 
Thou  monument  of  peaceful  happiness ! 

He  will  not  dread  with  Thee  a  toilsome  day —  25 

Thee  his  loved  servant,  his  inspiring  mate ! 
And,  when  Thou  art  past  service,  worn  away, 
No  dull  oblivious  nook  shall  hide  thy  fate. 

His  thrift  thy  uselessness  will  never  scorn ; 

An  heir-loom  ui  his  cottage  wilt  Thou  be : —  30 

High  will  he  hang  thee  up,  well  pleased  to  adorn 

His  rustic  chimney  with  the  last  of  Thee ! 

XV.  8  labouring     1837:  toiling     1807-32  9  so  1827:  Health,  quiet, 

meekness,  ardour,  hope  secure    1807-20  20  so  1815:  More  noble  than 

the  noblest  warrior's  sword.   1807 

25-6  so  1837:  With  thee  he  will  not  dread  a  toilsome  day, 
His  powerful  servant  etc.   1807-32 

28  so  1837:  Thee  a  surviving  soul  shall  consecrate.    1807-32 

29  usefulness    1807  and  1832  31  so  1837:  ...  up,  and  will  adorn 



[Composed  ?. — Published  1837  (The  Tribute:  edited  by  Lord  Northampton); 

vol.  of  1842.] 

Lo !  where  the  Moon  along  the  sky 
Sails  with  her  happy  destiny ; 
Oft  is  she  hid  from  mortal  eye 

Or  dimly  seen, 
But  when  the  clouds  asunder  fly  5 

How  bright  her  mien ! 

Far  different  we — a  froward  race, 
Thousands  though  rich  in  Fortune's  grace 
With  cherished  sullenness  of  pace 

Their  way  pursue,  10 

Ingrates  who  wear  a  smileless  face 

The  whole  year  through. 

If  kindred  humours  e'er  would  make 

My  spirit  droop  for  drooping's  sake, 

From  Fancy  following  in  thy  wake,  15 

Bright  ship  of  heaven ! 
A  counter  impulse  let  me  take 

And  be  forgiven. 


[Composed  1805. — Published  1807.] 

ON  his  morning  rounds  the  Master 
Goes  to  learn  how  all  things  fare ; 
Searches  pasture  after  pasture, 
Sheep  and  cattle  eyes  with  care ; 

XVI.  1-2  The  moon  that  sails  along  the  sky 

Moves  with  a  happy  destiny,  The  Tribute 
6/7  Not  flagging  when  the  winds  all  sleep, 

Not  hurried  onward,  when  they  sweep 

The  bosom  of  th'  aetherial  deep, 

Not  turned  aside, 

She  knows  an  even  course  to  keep, 

Whate'er  betide.   The  Tribute 
7  Perverse  are  we  etc.  The  Tribute 


And,  for  silence  or  for  talk,  5 

He  hath  comrades  in  his  walk ; 
Four  dogs,  each  pair  of  different  breed, 
Distinguished  two  for  scent,  and  two  for  speed. 

See  a  hare  before  him  started ! 

— Off  they  fly  in  earnest  chase ;  10 

Every  dog  is  eager-hearted, 

All  the  four  are  in  the  race : 

And  the  hare  whom  they  pursue, 

Knows  from  instinct  what  to  do ; 

Her  hope  is  near :  no  turn  she  makes ;  15 

But,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  river  takes. 

Deep  the  river  was,  and  crusted 

Thinly  by  a  one  night's  frost ; 

But  the  nimble  Hare  hath  trusted 

To  the  ice,  and  safely  crost ;  20 

She  hath  crost,  and  without  heed 

All  are  following  at  full  speed, 

When,  lo !  the  ice,  so  thinly  spread, 

Breaks — and  the  greyhound,  DAET,  is  over-head ! 

Better  fate  have  PRINCE  and  SWALLOW —  25 

See  them  cleaving  to  the  sport ! 

Music  has  no  heart  to  follow, 

Little  Music,  she  stops  short. 

She  hath  neither  wish  nor  heart, 

Hers  is  now  another  part :  30 

A  loving  creature  she,  and  brave ! 

And  fondly  strives  her  struggling  friend  to  save. 

From  the  brink  her  paws  she  stretches, 

Very  hands  as  you  would  say ! 

And  afflicting  moans  she  fetches,  35 

As  he  breaks  the  ice  away. 

For  herself  she  hath  no  fears, — 

Him  alone  she  sees  and  hears, — 

Makes  efforts  with  complainings ;  nor  gives  o'er 

Until  her  fellow  sinks  to  re-appear  no  more.  40 

XVII.  14  Knows  from    1837:  Hath  an    1807-32  32  fondly  strives 

1815 :  doth  her  best    1807  39-40  .  . .  efforts  with  . . .  sinks  to  re-appear 

1837:  .  .  .  efforts  and  .  .  .  sank,  [sunk  1807-15]  and  re-appear'd    1807-32 



[Composed  1805.— Published  1807.] 

LIE  here,  without  a  record  of  thy  worth, 

Beneath  a  covering  of  the  common  earth ! 

It  is  not  from  unwillingness  to  praise, 

Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  Stone  we  raise ; 

More  thou  deserv'st ;  but  this  man  gives  to  man,  5 

Brother  to  brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 

Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 

Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the  year : 

This  Oak  points  out  thy  grave ;  the  silent  tree 

Will  gladly  stand  a  monument  of  thee.  10 

We  grieved  for  thee,  and  wished  thy  end  were  past ; 
And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 
For  thou  hadst  lived  till  every  thing  that  cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years ; 
Extreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away,  15 

And  left  thee  but  a  glimmering  of  the  day ; 
Thy  ears  were  deaf,  and  feeble  were  thy  knees, — 
I  saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Too  weak  to  stand  against  its  sportive  breath, 
And  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death.  20 

It  came,  and  we  were  glad ;  yet  tears  were  shed ; 
Both  man  and  woman  wept  when  thou  wert  dead ; 
Not  only  for  a  thousand  thoughts  that  were, 
Old  household  thoughts,  in  which  thou  hadst  thy  share ; 
But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to  thee,  25 

Found  scarcely  anywhere  in  like  degree ! 
For  love,  that  comes  wherever  life  and  sense 
Are  given  by  God,  in  thee  was  most  intense ; 
A  chain  of  heart,  a  feeling  of  the  mind, 

XVIII.  Before  I.  1.  Lie  here  sequester'd:  be  this  little  mound 

For  ever  thine,  and  be  it  holy  ground!    1807-20 
2  Beneath  a    1827:  Beneath  the    1807-20 
6-6  that  Man  gives  to  Man 

The  Brother  to  the  Brother — all  we  can     L 

11  so  1837: 1 pray'd  for  thee,  and  that  thy  end  were  past    1807-15;  1820-32 
a*  text  builforWe 

27-8  50  1837:  For  love,  that  comes  to  all;  the  holy  sense, 
Best  gift  of  God  etc.   1807-32 


A  tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind  30 

Not  only  to  us  Men,  but  to  thy  Kind : 

Yea,  for  thy  fellow-brutes  in  thee  we  saw 

A  soul  of  love,  love's  intellectual  law : — 

Hence,  if  we  wept,  it  was  not  done  in  shame ; 

Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason  came,  35 

And,  therefore,  shalt  thou  be  an  honoured  name ! 


[Composed  1805. — Published  1807.] 
A  BARKING  sound  the  Shepherd  hears, 
A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  fox ; 
He  halts — and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks : 

And  now  at  distance  can  discern  5 

A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern ; 
And  instantly  a  dog  is  seen, 
Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  Dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy ;  10 

With  something,  as  the  Shepherd  thinks, 

Unusual  in  its  cry : 

Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 

All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout,  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear ;  15 

What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 
That  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow ; 
A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn1-below !  20 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 
Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 
Pathway,  or  cultivated  land ; 
From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 
1  Tarn  is  a  small  Mere  or  Lake,  mostly  high  up  in  the  mountains. 

33  A  soul    1837:  The  soul    1807-32 

XIX.  7-8  so  1816-60  (but  1816  from  for  through) 
From  which  immediately  leaps  out 
A  Dog,  and  yelping  runs  about    MSS.,  1807 

23-4  And  oft  from  month  to  month  they  say 
No  human  being  goes  that  way  MS.  del. 


There  sometimes  doth  a  leaping  fish  25 

Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak, 

In  symphony  austere ; 

Thither  the  rainbow  comes — the  cloud — 

And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ;  30 

And  sunbeams ;  and  the  sounding  blast, 

That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past ; 

But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  a  while 

The  Shepherd  stood ;  then  makes  his  way  35 

O'er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  Dog 

As  quickly  as  he  may ; 

Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 

A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground ; 

The  appalled  Discoverer  with  a  sigh  40 

Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 
The  Man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear ! 

25  doth    1820:  does    MS.,  1807  33  holds    1837:  binds    MSS.-1832 

34  so  1815:  Not  knowing  what  to  think     MSS..  1807  36  so  1837: 

Towards  the  Dog,  o'er  rocks  and  stones  MSS.-1832  40  so  1815:  Sad 

Shepherd  etc.   MS.,  1807 
40-1  Sad  sight !  he  leaves  it,  as  it  lies, 

Untouch'd  and  to  the  village  hies.  MSS. 
41/2  A  Company  return'd  forthwith ; 

And  mark  what  to  their  eyes  was  shewn! 

The  raiment  yet  was  on  the  bones, 

Although  the  flesh  was  gone ; 

A  raiment,  though  decay'd  untorn ; 

Such  as  the  living  Man  had  worn ; 

As  if  the  flesh,  from  day  to  day, 

Had  perish' d  by  its  own  decay. 

How  died  he  ?   This  was  quickly  learn'd 
By  proofs  collected  here  and  there ; 
An  angling  rod  which  from  the  steep 
Hung  midway  in  the  air, 
A  Hat,  and,  still  on  higher  ground, 
Some  needments  in  a  kerchief  bound ; 
These  did,  with  other  proofs,  make  out 
The  mournful  story  past  all  doubt.  MSS. 

42-9  From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 

The  Man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear ! 
And  signs  and  circumstances  dawn'd 
917.17  IV  G 


At  length  upon  the  Shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear :  45 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 

Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 

On  which  the  Traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder,  for  whose  sake  50 

This  lamentable  tale  I  tell ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 

This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  Dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry,  55 

This  Dog,  had  been  through  three  months'  space 

A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  the  day 

When  this  ill-fated  Traveller  died, 

The  Dog  had  watched  about  the  spot,  60 

Or  by  his  master's  side : 

Till  everything  was  clear ; 
They  made  discovery  of  his  name, 
And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came, 
And  some  could  call  to  mind  the  day 
When  with  his  Dog  he  pass'd  this  way. 

A  youth  he  was,  and  come  from  far, 

Yet,  in  this  Country  was  well  known 

As  one  who  wander'd  through  the  hills 

And  loved  to  be  alone. 

With  pencil  and  with  angling  rod 

He  went,  and  oft  such  places  trod 

That  some  had  warn'd  him  to  beware, 

Who  witness'd1  how  he  went  and  where.  MSS. 
60-1  so  1815:  But  hear  a  wonder  now,  for  sake 

Of  which  this  mournful  Tale  I  tell    MSS.,  1807 
67/8  In  the  forlorn  Abyss  had  lived : 

To  this  unfriendly  spot  had  clung 

Exposed  to  sun  and  wind ;  and  here 

Had  she  brought  forth  her  Young, 

For  of  her  helpless  Offspring,  one 

Was  lying  near  the  Skeleton ; 

Which  must  (as  its  appearance  told) 

Have  lived  till  it  was  six  weeks  old.  MSS. 

69  so  1827:  On  which  the  Traveller  (Young  Man     MSS.)  thus  had  died 


By  objects  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abate 

Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate ;  20 

Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 

As  tempted  more ;  more  able  to  endure, 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress ;  25 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

— 'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason ;  who  depends 

Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 

Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 

To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill,  30 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 

Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 

He  labours  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 

To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows : 

— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command,  35 

Rises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will  stand 

On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire, 

And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire ; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim ;  4° 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state ; 

Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife,      45 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace ; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind,  50 

Is  happy  as  a  Lover ;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  Man  inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed,  55 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 

— He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 

Is  yet  a  Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

33  so  1837:  He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,     1807-32 


To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ;  60 

Sweet  images!  which,  whereso'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love : — 

'Tis,  finally,  the  Man,  who  lifted  high,  65 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 

Or  left  uiithought-of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not — 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one  7° 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won : 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last,  75 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  fall,  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 

And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name —  80 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause : 

This  is  the  happy  Warrior ;  this  is  He 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be.  85 




[Composed   1807. — Published   1815  (4to,  along  with  The   White  Doe  of 

Bylstone);  ed.  1815.] 

"  Wfat  i*  Boob  for  a  6oottee«  tone?  " 

With  these  dark  words  begins  my  Tale ; 

And  their  meaning  is,  whence  can  comfort  spring 

When  Prayer  is  of  no  avail  ? 

1  See  "The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone." 

79  so  1840;    fall  and  sleep      1837:    Or  He  must   go   to   dust  without 
1807-32  85     That  1845:     Whom     1807-43 

XXII.  2      The  lady  answer'd  "endless  sorrow" 

Her  words  are  clear ;  but  the  Falconer's  words 


i#  floob  for  a  bootless  iene?  "  5 

The  Falconer  to  the  Lady  said  ; 

And  she  made  answer  "ENDLESS  SORROW!" 

For  she  knew  that  her  Son  was  dead. 

She  knew  it  by  the  Falconer's  words, 

And  from  the  look  of  the  Falconer's  eye  ;  10 

And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 

For  her  youthful  Romilly. 

—  Young  Romilly  through  Barden  woods 

Is  ranging  high  and  low  ; 

And  holds  a  greyhound  in  a  leash,  15 

To  let  slip  upon  buck  or  doe. 

The  pair  have  reached  that  fearful  chasm, 

How  tempting  to  bestride  ! 

For  lordly  Wharf  is  there  pent  in 

With  rocks  on  either  side.  20 

The  striding-place  is  called  THE  STRID, 
A  name  which  it  took  of  yore  : 
A  thousand  years  hath  it  borne  that  name, 
And  shall  a  thousand  more. 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come,  25 

And  what  may  now  forbid 

That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time, 

Shall  bound  across  THE  STRID  ? 

He  sprang  in  glee,  —  for  what  cared  he 

That  the  river  was  strong,  and  the  rocks  were  steep  ?  —  30 

But  the  greyhound  in  the  leash  hung  back, 

And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  Boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 
And  strangled  by  a  merciless  force  ; 

Are  a  path  that  is  dark  to  travel  thorough. 

These  words  I  bring  from  the  Banks  of  Wharf, 

Dark  words  to  front  an  antient  tale  ;  MS. 

7  "endless  sorrow"]  as  ye  have  heard    MS.         11  soul]  heart    MS.         17 
The  pair     1820;  And  the  pair    MS.,  1815 
18-19  Where  he  who  dares  may  stride 

Across  the  river  Wharf,  pent  in    MS. 
26  hither]  thither    MS. 


For  never  more  was  young  Romilly  seen  35 

Till  he  rose  a  lifeless  corse. 

Now  there  is  stillness  in  the  vale, 

And  long,  unspeaking,  sorrow : 

Wharf  shall  be  to  pitying  hearts 

A  name  more  sad  than  Yarrow.  40 

If  for  a  Lover  the  Lady  wept, 

A  solace  she  might  borrow 

From  death,  and  from  the  passion  of  death : — 

Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 

She  weeps  not  for  the  wedding-day  45 

Which  was  to  be  to-morrow : 

Her  hope  was  a  further-looking  hope, 

And  hers  is  a  mother's  sorrow. 

He  was  a  tree  that  stood  alone, 

And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave ;  50 

And  the  root  of  this  delightful  tree 

Was  in  her  husband's  grave ! 

Long,  long  in  darkness  did  she  sit, 

And  her  first  words  were,  "Let  there  be 

In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf,  55 

A  stately  Priory!" 

The  stately  Priory  was  reared ; 

And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along, 

To  matins  joined  a  mournful  voice, 

Nor  failed  at  even-song.  60 

And  the  Lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  Hot  for  relief! 
But  slowly  did  her  succour  come, 
And  a  patience  to  her  grief. 

Oh !  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart  65 

That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn,  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  friend ! 

39-40  Wharf  has  buried  fonder  hopes 

Than  e'er  were  drown'd  in  Yarrow     MS. 
42  solace]  comfort     MS. 




[Composed  1816.— Published  1820.] 
THE  Danish  Conqueror,  on  his  royal  chair, 
Mustering  a  face  of  haughty  sovereignty, 
To  aid  a  covert  purpose,  cried — "O  ye 
Approaching  Waters  of  the  deep,  that  share 
With  this  green  isle  my  fortunes,  come  not  where  5 

Your  Master's  throne  is  set." — Deaf  was  the  Sea ; 
Her  waves  rolled  on,  respecting  his  decree 
Less  than  they  heed  a  breath  of  wanton  air. 
— Then  Canute,  rising  from  the  invaded  throne, 
Said  to  his  servile  Courtiers, — "Poor  the  reach,  10 

The  undisguised  extent,  of  mortal  sway ! 
He  only  is  a  King,  and  he  alone 
Deserves  the  name  (this  truth  the  billows  preach) 
Whose  everlasting  laws,  sea,  earth,  and  heaven  obey." 

This  just  reproof  the  prosperous  Dane  15 

Drew  from  the  influx  of  the  main, 
For  some  whose  rugged  northern  mouths  would  strain 
At  oriental  flattery ; 

And  Canute  (fact  more  worthy  to  be  known) 
From  that  time  forth  did  for  his  brows  disown  20 

The  ostentatious  symbol  of  a  crown ; 
Esteeming  earthly  royalty 
Contemptible  as  vain. 

Now  hear  what  one  of  elder  days, 

Rich  theme  of  England's  fondest  praise,  25 

Her  darling  Alfred,  might  have  spoken ; 

XXIII.  6-8  so  1840  but  had  for  heed: 
.  .  .  Absurd  decree ! 

A  mandate  uttered  to  the  foaming  sea, 
Is  to  its  motion  less  than  wanton  air    MS. — 1837 
The  foaming  sea  Heard  and  rolled  on  respecting  his  decree 
Less  than  it  heeds  etc.  as  text  C 

19  which  is  worthier  to  be  known  MS.     fact     1849:  truth     MS.  1820-45 
23  as     1849:  and     1820-45 
26—7  Her  darling  Alfred  might  have  taught 
The  Sea,  the  prompter  of  his  thought, 
Such  words  as  these  methinks  he  might  have  spoken 
To  chear  etc.     MS. 


To  cheer  the  remnant  of  his  host 

When  he  was  driven  from  coast  to  coast, 

Distressed  and  harassed,  but  with  mind  unbroken : 

"My  faithful  followers,  lo!  the  tide  is  spent  3° 

That  rose,  and  steadily  advanced  to  fill 
The  shores  and  channels,  working  Nature's  will 
Among  the  mazy  streams  that  backward  went, 
And  in  the  sluggish  pools  where  ships  are  pent : 
And  now,  his  task  performed,  the  flood  stands  still,         35 
At  the  green  base  of  many  an  inland  hill, 
In  placid  beauty  and  sublime  content ! 
Such  the  repose  that  sage  and  hero  find ; 
Such  measured  rest  the  sedulous  and  good 
Of  humbler  name ;  whose  souls  do,  like  the  flood  40 

Of  Ocean,  press  right  on ;  or  gently  wind, 
Neither  to  be  diverted  nor  withstood, 
Until  they  reach  the  bounds  by  Heaven  assigned." 


[Composed  1816. — Published  1820.] 

"A  LITTLE  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 

To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on!" 

— What  trick  of  memory  to  my  voice  hath  brought 

This  mournful  iteration  ?  For  though  Time, 

The  Conqueror,  crowns  the  Conquered,  on  his  brow          5 

Planting  his  favourite  silver  diadem, 

Nor  he,  nor  minister  of  his — intent 

To  run  before  him,  hath  enrolled  me  yet, 

Though  not  unmenaced,  among  those  who  lean 

Upon  a  living  staff,  with  borrowed  sight.  10 

— O  my  own  Dora,  my  beloved  child ! 

Should  that  day  come — but  hark !  the  birds  salute 

The  cheerful  dawn,  brightening  for  me  the  east ; 

30  My  Son,  behold  the  [        ]  of  the  tide     MS.         35  his     1837:  its    MSS., 
1820-32  37  sublime]  entire     MSS.  39  sedulous]  diligent     MS. 

XXIV.  8-9  To  run  before  with  too  officious  speed 

Casting  a  shadow  on  his  Master's  path 

Hath  been  permitted  to  enroll  me  yet 

Though  etc.  MS.  corr.  to  text 
II  so  1850:  O  my  Antigone,  beloved  child!  MS.,  1820-46 


For  me,  thy  natural  leader,  once  again 

Impatient  to  conduct  thee,  not  as  erst  15 

A  tottering  infant,  with  compliant  stoop 

From  flower  to  flower  supported ;  but  to  curb 

Thy  nymph-like  step  swift-bounding  o'er  the  lawn, 

Along  the  loose  rocks,  or  the  slippery  verge 

Of  foaming  torrents. — From  thy  orisons  20 

Come  forth ;  and,  while  the  morning  air  is  yet 

Transparent  as  the  soul  of  innocent  youth, 

Let  me,  thy  happy  guide,  now  point  thy  way, 

And  now  precede  thee,  winding  to  and  fro, 

Till  we  by  perseverance  gain  the  top  25 

Of  some  smooth  ridge,  whose  brink  precipitous 

Kindles  intense  desire  for  powers  withheld 

From  this  corporeal  frame ;  whereon  who  stands 

Is  seized  with  strong  incitement  to  push  forth 

His  arms,  as  swimmers  use,  and  plunge — dread  thought,  30 

For  pastime  plunge — into  the  uabrupt  abyss", 

Where  ravens  spread  their  plumy  vans,  at  ease ! 

And  yet  more  gladly  thee  would  I  conduct 
Through  woods  and  spacious  forests, — to  behold 
There,  how  the  Original  of  human  art,  35 

Heaven-prompted  Nature,  measures  and  erects 
Her  temples,  fearless  for  the  stately  work, 
Though  waves,  to  every  breeze,  its  high-arched  roof, 
And  storms  the  pillars  rock.   But  we  such  schools 
Of  reverential  awe  will  chiefly  seek  40 

In  the  still  summer  noon,  while  beams  of  light, 
Reposing  here,  and  in  the  aisles  beyond 
Traceably  gliding  through  the  dusk,  recal 
To  mind  the  living  presences  of  nuns ; 
A  gentle,  pensive,  white-robed  sisterhood,  45 

Whose  saintly  radiance  mitigates  the  gloom 
Of  those  terrestial  fabrics,  where  they  serve, 
To  Christ,  the  Sun  of  righteousness,  espoused. 

19  The  loose  rocks,  and  along  . . .  edge  MS.  34  spacious]  wide -spread 

MS.  37  Her  sylvan  temples,  fearless  for  the  work,  MS.  46  gentle] 
saintly  MS.  46  Whose  radiance  mitigates  the  shady  gloom  MS.  47 
fabrics]  mansions  MS. 


Now  also  shall  the  page  of  classic  lore, 
To  these  glad  eyes  from  bondage  freed,  again  50 

Lie  open ;  and  the  book  of  Holy  writ, 
Again  unfolded,  passage  clear  shall  yield 
To  heights  more  glorious  still,  and  into  shades 
More  awful,  where,  advancing  hand  in  hand, 
We  may  be  taught,  O  Darling  of  my  care  1  55 

To  calm  the  affections,  elevate  the  soul, 
And  consecrate  our  lives  to  truth  and  love. 


MAY,  1817 
[Composed  May,  1817.— Published  1820.] 


AN  age  hath  been  when  Earth  was  proud 
Of  lustre  too  intense 
To  be  sustained ;  and  Mortals  bowed 
The  front  in  self-defence. 

Who  then,  if  Dian's  crescent  gleamed,  5 

Or  Cupid's  sparkling  arrow  streamed 
While  on  the  wing  the  Urchin  played, 
Could  fearlessly  approach  the  shade  ? 
— Enough  for  one  soft  vernal  day, 
If  I,  a  bard  of  ebbing  time,  10 

And  nurtured  in  a  fickle  clime, 
May  haunt  this  horned  bay ; 
Whose  amorous  water  multiplies 
The  flitting  halcyon's  vivid  dyes ; 

49-65  So  1827: 

Re-open  now  thy  everlasting  gates, 

Thou  Fane  of  Holy  Writ!   Ye  classic  Domes, 

To  these  glad  orbs  from  darksome  bondage  freed, 

Unfold  again  your  portals !   Passage  lies 

Through  you  to  heights  more  glorious  still,  and  shades 

More  awful,  where  this  Darling  of  my  care, 

Advancing  with  me  hand  in  hand,  may  learn, 

Without  forsaking  a  too  earnest  world,     1820  so    MS.  but  for 

last  three  lines: 

.  .  .  where  this  Novice,  of  my  hopes 

The  sunbeam,  darling  of  my  care,  with  whom 

I  now  am  free  to  enter  hand  in  hand 

Cheared  by  the  sound  of  tuneful  harps,  may  learn 

Without  forsaking  .  .  . 
57  our  lives     1827:  her  life    MS.,  1820 


And  smooths  her  liquid  breast — to  show  15 

These  swan-like  specks  of  mountain  snow, 
White  as  the  pair  that  slid  along  the  plains 
Of  heaven,  when  Venus  held  the  reins ! 


In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn 
Brushed  by  the  owlet's  wing ;  20 

Then,  Twilight  is  preferred  to  Dawn, 
And  Autumn  to  the  Spring. 
Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect, 
In  luxury  of  disrespect 

To  our  own  prodigal  excess  25 

Of  too  familiar  happiness. 
Lycoris  (if  such  name  befit 
Thee,  thee  my  life's  celestial  sign!) 
When  Nature  marks  the  year's  decline, 
Be  ours  to  welcome  it ;  30 

Pleased  with  the  harvest  hope  that  runs 
Before  the  path  of  milder  suns ; 
Pleased  while  the  sylvan  world  displays 
Its  ripeness  to  the  feeding  gaze ; 

Pleased  when  the  sullen  winds  resound  the  knell          35 
Of  the  resplendent  miracle. 


But  something  whispers  to  my  heart 
That,  as  we  downward  tend, 
Lycoris !  life  requires  an  art 

To  which  our  souls  must  bend  ;  40 

A  skill — to  balance  and  supply ; 
And,  ere  the  flowing  fount  be  dry, 
As  soon  it  must,  a  sense  to  sip, 
Or  drink,  with  no  fastidious  lip. 

Then  welcome,  above  all,  the  Guest  45 

Whose  smiles,  diffused  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Seem  to  recal  the  Deity 
Of  youth  into  the  breast : 

XXV.  15  her     1827:  its     1820 

31-2  so  1827:  Pleased  with  the  soil's  requited  cares; 

Pleased  with  the  blue  that  ether  wears;     1820 
45-8  so  1827:  Frank  greeting,  then,  to  that  blithe  Guest 

Diffusing  smiles  o'er  land  and  sea 

To  aid  the  vernal  Deity 

Whose  home  is  in  the  breast!     1820 


May  pensive  Autumn  ne'er  present 

A  claim  to  her  disparagement !  5° 

While  blossoms  and  the  budding  spray 

Inspire  us  in  our  own  decay ; 

Still,  as  we  nearer  draw  to  life's  dark  goal, 

Be  hopeful  Spring  the  favourite  of  the  Soul ! 



[Composed,  as  a  whole,  1817. — Published  1820.] 

ENOUGH  of  climbing  toil ! — Ambition  treads 

Here,  as  'mid  busier  scenes,  ground  steep  and  rough, 

Or  slippery  even  to  peril !  and  each  step, 

As  we  for  most  uncertain  recompence 

Mount  toward  the  empire  of  the  fickle  clouds,  5 

Each  weary  step,  dwarfing  the  world  below, 

Induces,  for  its  old  familiar  sights, 

Unacceptable  feelings  of  contempt, 

With  wonder  mixed — that  Man  could  e'er  be  tied, 

In  anxious  bondage,  to  such  nice  array  10 

And  formal  fellowship  of  petty  things ! 

— Oh !  'tis  the  heart  that  magnifies  this  life, 

Making  a  truth  and  beauty  of  her  own ; 

And  moss-grown  alleys,  circumscribing  shades, 

And  gurgling  rills,  assist  her  in  the  work  15 

XXVI.  2  As  in  the  sphere  of  courts   MS.;  'mid     1827:  in     1820          3  so 
1827:  Oft  perilous,  always  tiresome;     MS.,  1820  4-6  recompence  .  .  . 

step     1827:  gain  ascend  Towards  the  clouds,  1820 
4-10     .  .  .  gain  ascend, 

Dwindling,  the  old  familiar  world  below 
Induces  stealthy  feelings  of  contempt 
With  wonder,  that  our  hearts  could  e'er  be  tied 
By  anxious  interest  to  such  nice  array     MS. 

14-16  No,  if  she  be  not  wanting  to  herself  Do  moss-grown  .  .  .  Less 
efficaciously  C 

14-42  And  low-brow'd  cell  and  circumscribing  shades 
Such  as  surround  us  here  assist  the  work. 
Come  let  me  see  thee  sink  etc.     MS.    1 
15-42  Such  as  do  now  surround  us,  aid  her  more 
In  the  blest  work  than  tower'd  Palace  high 
Far  blazing  as  if  built  of  fire :  or  pomp 
Of  sea  and  land  contending  for  regard 
Of  the  lone  Shepherd  on  the  mountain  top 
While  he  perchance  following  some  humble  quest 


More  efficaciously  than  realms  outspread, 
As  in  a  map,  before  the  adventurer's  gaze — 
Ocean  and  Earth  contending  for  regard. 

The  umbrageous  woods  are  left — how  far  beneath ! 
But  lo !  where  darkness  seems  to  guard  the  mouth  20 

Of  yon  wild  cave,  whose  jagged  brows  are  fringed 
With  flaccid  threads  of  ivy,  in  the  still 
And  sultry  air,  depending  motionless. 
Yet  cool  the  space  within,  and  not  uncheered 
(As  whoso  enters  shall  ere  long  perceive) —  25 

By  stealthy  influx  of  the  timid  day 
Mingling  with  night,  such  twilight  to  compose 
As  Numa  loved ;  when,  in  the  Egerian  grot, 
From  the  sage  Nymph  appearing  at  his  wish, 
He  gained  whate'er  a  regal  mind  might  ask,  30 

Or  need,  of  counsel  breathed  through  lips  divine. 

Long  as  the  heat  shall  rage,  let  that  dim  cave 
Protect  us,  there  deciphering  as  we  may 
Diluvian  records ;  or  the  sighs  of  Earth 
Interpreting ;  or  counting  for  old  Time  35 

His  minutes,  by  reiterated  drops, 
Audible  tears,  from  some  invisible  source 
That  deepens  upon  fancy — more  and  more 
Drawn  toward  the  centre  whence  those  sighs  creep  forth 
To  awe  the  lightness  of  humanity.  40 

Or,  shutting  up  thyself  within  thyself, 
There  let  me  see  thee  sink  into  a  mood 
Of  gentler  thought,  protracted  till  thine  eye 
Be  calm  as  water  when  the  winds  are  gone, 
And  no  one  can  tell  whither.   Dearest  Friend !  45 

Of  both  is  heedless.   Rather,  would  I  gaze 

On  a  small  flower,  retaining  at  my  feet 

Its  long-loved  aspect  than  become  the  sport 

Of  transmutations  taking  more  away 

Than  they  can  give  in  recompense.   Rest  here 

And  let  me  see  thee  sink  etc.  MS.,  2 

19-42  so  1827:  Lo!  there  a  dim  Egerian  grotto  fringed 

With  ivy -twine,  profusely  from  its  brows 
Dependant, — enter  without  further  aim ; 
And  let  me  etc.  1820 

32-61  For  earlier  drafts  v.  notes  43  gentler  1827:  quiet     1820 

917.17  IV  H 


We  two  have  known  such  happy  hours  together 

That,  were  power  granted  to  replace  them  (fetched 

From  out  the  pensive  shadows  where  they  lie) 

In  the  first  warmth  of  their  original  sunshine, 

Loth  should  I  be  to  use  it :  passing  sweet  50 

Are  the  domains  of  tender  memory ! 


[Composed  September,  1819. — Published  1820.] 

THE  sylvan  slopes  with  corn- clad  fields 

Are  hung,  as  if  with  golden  shields, 

Bright  trophies  of  the  sun ! 

Like  a  fair  sister  of  the  sky, 

Unruffled  doth  the  blue  lake  lie,  5 

The  mountains  looking  on. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove, 

Albeit  uninspired  by  love, 

By  love  untaught  to  ring, 

May  well  afford  to  mortal  ear  10 

An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 

Than  music  of  the  Spring. 

For  that  from  turbulence  and  heat 

Proceeds,  from  some  uneasy  seat 

In  nature's  struggling  frame,  15 

Some  region  of  impatient  life : 

And  jealousy,  and  quivering  strife, 

Therein  a  portion  claim. 

This,  this  is  holy ;— while  I  hear 

These  vespers  of  another  year,  20 

This  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise, 

My  spirit  seems  to  mount  above 

The  anxieties  of  human  love, 

And  earth's  precarious  days. 

46  two     MSS.      1820-43:  too     1846-50  happy]  blissful     MSS.      51  tender] 

pensive    MS. 

XXVII.  2  as  if  with]  that  show  like    MS.  7  vocal]  tuneful    MS. 


But  list ! — though  winter  storms  be  nigh,  25 

Unchecked  is  that  soft  harmony : 

There  lives  Who  can  provide 

For  all  His  creatures ;  and  in  Him, 

Even  like  the  radiant  Seraphim, 

These  choristers  confide.  3° 


[Composed  September,  1819. — Published  1820.] 

DEPABTING  summer  hath  assumed 

An  aspect  tenderly  illumed, 

The  gentlest  look  of  spring ; 

That  calls  from  yonder  leafy  shade 

Unfaded,  yet  prepared  to  fade,  5 

A  timely  carolling. 

No  faint  and  hesitating  trill, 

Such  tribute  as  to  winter  chill 

The  lonely  redbreast  pays ! 

Clear,  loud,  and  lively  is  the  din,  10 

From  social  warblers  gathering  in 

Their  harvest  of  sweet  lays. 

Nor  doth  the  example  fail  to  cheer 

Me,  conscious  that  my  leaf  is  sere, 

And  yellow  on  the  bough: —  15 

Fall,  rosy  garlands,  from  my  head ! 

Ye  myrtle  wreaths,  your  fragrance  shed 

Around  a  younger  brow ! 

Yet  will  I  temperately  rejoice ; 

Wide  is  the  range,  and  free  the  choice  20 

Of  undiscordant  themes ; 

Which,  haply,  kindred  souls  may  prize 

Not  less  than  vernal  ecstasies, 

And  passion's  feverish  dreams. 

XXVIII.  6  timely]  tuneful    MS. 
17-18  Your  flowers,  ye  wreaths  of  myrtle  shed, 
Ye  cannot  keep  them  now.   MS. 


For  deathless  powers  to  verse  belong,  25 

And  they  like  Demi-gods  are  strong 

On  whom  the  Muses  smile ; 

But  some  their  function  have  disclaimed, 

Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest  framed 

To  enervate  and  defile.  30 

Not  such  the  initiatory  strains 

Committed  to  the  silent  plains 

In  Britain's  earliest  dawn : 

Trembled  the  groves,  the  stars  grew  pale, 

While  all-too-daringly  the  veil  35 

Of  nature  was  withdrawn ! 

Nor  such  the  spirit-stirring  note 

When  the  live  chords  Alcseus  smote, 

Inflamed  by  sense  of  wrong  ; 

Woe !  woe  to  Tyrants !  from  the  lyre  40 

Broke  threateningly,  in  sparkles  dire 

Of  fierce  vindictive  song. 

And  not  unhallowed  was  the  page 

By  winged  Love  inscribed,  to  assuage 

The  pangs  of  vain  pursuit ;  45 

Love  listening  while  the  Lesbian  Maid 

With  finest  touch  of  passion  swayed 

Her  own  ^Eolian  lute. 

O  ye,  who  patiently  explore 

The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore,  50 

What  rapture !  could  ye  seize 

Some  Theban  fragment,  or  unroll 

One  precious,  tender-hearted,  scroll 

Of  pure  Simonides. 

28  function]  Patrons    MS. 

30/1  And  surely  of  the  (tuneful)  industrious  band 

Who  spread  along  their  native  land  (Whose  filmy  verse  o'er  spreads 
the  land) 

The  (With)  snares  of  soft  desire 

There  are  who  might  be  taught  to  spurn 

The  task,  more  clearly  to  discern, 

More  nobly  to  aspire.  MS. 
47  With  passion's  fervent  finger  swayed    MS.         64  pure]  sweet    MS. 


That  were,  indeed,  a  genuine  birth  55 

Of  poesy ;  a  bursting  forth 

Of  genius  from  the  dust : 

What  Horace  gloried  to  behold, 

What  Maro  loved,  shall  we  enfold  ? 

Can  haughty  Time  be  just!  60 


[Composed  1823.— Published  1827.] 

A  PEN — to  register ;  a  key — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards ; 
Are  well  assigned  to  Memory 
By  allegoric  Bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given  5 

A  Pencil  to  her  hand ; 
That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 
Outstrips  the  heart's  demand ; 

That  smoothes  foregone  distress,  the  lines 

Of  lingering  care  subdues,  10 

Long- vanished  happiness  refines, 

And  clothes  in  brighter  hues ; 

Yet,  like  a  tool  of  Fancy,  works 

Those  Spectres  to  dilate 

That  startle  Conscience,  as  she  lurks  15 

Within  her  lonely  seat. 

O !  that  our  lives,  which  flee  so  fast, 

In  purity  were  such, 

That  not  an  image  of  the  past 

Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch !  20 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a  soothing  scene, 
Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook 
Contented  and  serene ; 

With  heart  as  calm  as  lakes  that  sleep,  25 

In  frosty  moonlight  glistening ; 

58  gloried]  boasted  MS. 


Or  mountain  rivers,  where  they  creep 

Along  a  channel  smooth  and  deep, 

To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening. 


[Composed  1829.— Published  1835.] 

THIS  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive 

With  shadows  flung  from  leaves — to  strive 

In  dance,  amid  a  press 
Of  sunshine,  an  apt  emblem  yields 
Of  Worldlings  revelling  in  the  fields  5 

Of  strenuous  idleness ; 

Less  quick  the  stir  when  tide  and  breeze 
Encounter,  and  to  narrow  seas 

Forbid  a  moment's  rest ; 

The  medley  less  when  boreal  Lights  10 

Glance  to  and  fro,  like  aery  Sprites 

To  feats  of  arms  addrest ! 

Yet,  spite  of  all  this  eager  strife, 
This  ceaseless  play,  the  genuine  life 

That  serves  the  stedfast  hours,  15 

Is  in  the  grass  beneath,  that  grows 
Unheeded,  and  the  mute  repose 

Of  sweetly -breathing  flowers. 


[Composed  1829. — Published  1835.] 

The  Rocking-stones,  alluded  to  in  the  beginning  of  the  following  verses, 
are  supposed  to  have  been  used,  by  our  British  ancestors,  both  for 
judicial  and  religious  purposes.  Such  stones  are  not  uncommonly  found, 
at  this  day,  both  in  Great  Britain  and  in  Ireland. 

WHAT  though  the  Accused,  upon  his  own  appeal 
To  righteous  Gods  when  man  has  ceased  to  feel, 
Or  at  a  doubting  Judge's  stern  command, 
Before  the  STONE  OF  POWER  no  longer  stand — 

XXX.  5  worldling  revellers    MSS. 

XXXI.  1-8  What  though  dislodged  by  purer  faith,  no  more 

White -vested  Priests  the  hallowed  Oak  adore 

Nor  Seer  nor  Judge  consult  the  Stone  of  Power !  MS. 


To  take  his  sentence  from  the  balanced  Block,  5 

As,  at  his  touch,  it  rocks,  or  seems  to  rock ; 

Though,  in  the  depths  of  sunless  groves,  no  more 

The  Druid-priest  the  hallowed  Oak  adore ; 

Yet,  for  the  Initiate,  rocks  and  whispering  trees 

Do  still  perform  mysterious  offices!  10 

And  functions  dwell  in  beast  and  bird  that  sway 

The  reasoning  mind,  or  with  the  fancy  play, 

Inviting,  at  all  seasons,  ears  and  eyes 

To  watch  for  undelusive  auguries : — 

Not  uninspired  appear  their  simplest  ways ;  15 

Their  voices  mount  symbolical  of  praise — 

To  mix  with  hymns  that  Spirits  make  and  hear ; 

And  to  fallen  man  their  innocence  is  dear. 

Enraptured  Art  draws  from  those  sacred  springs 

Streams  that  reflect  the  poetry  of  things !  20 

Where  Christian  Martyrs  stand  in  hues  portrayed, 

That,  might  a  wish  avail,  would  never  fade, 

Borne  in  their  hands  the  lily  and  the  palm 

Shed  round  the  altar  a  celestial  calm ; 

There,  too,  behold  the  lamb  and  guileless  dove  25 

Prest  in  the  tenderness  of  virgin  love 

To  saintly  bosoms ! — Glorious  is  the  blending 

Of  right  affections  climbing  or  descending 

Along  a  scale  of  light  and  life,  with  cares 

Alternate ;  carrying  holy  thoughts  and  prayers  30 

Up  to  the  sovereign  seat  of  the  Most  High ; 

Descending  to  the  worm  in  charity ; 

Like  those  good  Angels  whom  a  dream  of  night 

Gave,  in  the  field  of  Luz,  to  Jacob's  sight 

All,  while  he  slept,  treading  the  pendent  stairs  35 

.1-14  And  still  in  beast  and  bird  a  function  dwells, 

That,  while  we  look  and  listen,  sometimes  tells 

Upon  the  heart,  in  more  authentic  guise 

Than  Oracles,  or  winged  Auguries, 

Spake  to  the  Science  of  the  ancient  Wise.   MS.,  1835 
6-17  Their  voice  ascends . . .  Of  hymns  which  blessed  Spirits    MS. 
9-20  not  in  MS.         21  Where  Martyrs  stand,  or  soar,     MS. 
!2-3  That  if  a  wish  might  save  them,  ne'er  would  fade 

The  unspotted  lilly,  the  victorious  palm  MS. 
;9       Along  the  scale  of  things,  with  ceaseless  cares  MS. 
14-5  Showed  to  the  Patriarch,  not  in  banded  flight, 
But,  treading,  while  he  slept,  the  MS. 


Earthward  or  heavenward,  radiant  messengers, 

That,  with  a  perfect  will  in  one  accord 

Of  strict  obedience,  serve  the  Almighty  Lord ; 

And  with  untired  humility  forbore 

To  speed  their  errand  by  the  wings  they  wore.  40 

What  a  fair  world  were  ours  for  verse  to  paint, 
If  Power  could  live  at  ease  with  self-restraint ! 
Opinion  bow  before  the  naked  sense 
Of  the  great  Vision, — faith  in  Providence ; 
•  Merciful  over  all  his  creatures,  just  45 

To  the  least  particle  of  sentient  dust ; 
But  fixing  by  immutable  decrees 
Seedtime  and  harvest  for  his  purposes ! 
Then  would  be  closed  the  restless  oblique  eye 
That  looks  for  evil  like  a  treacherous  spy ;  50 

Disputes  would  then  relax,  like  stormy  winds 
That  into  breezes  sink ;  impetuous  minds 
By  discipline  endeavour  to  grow  meek 
As  Truth  herself,  whom  they  profess  to  seek. 
Then  Genius,  shunning  fellowship  with  Pride,  55 

Would  braid  his  golden  locks  at  Wisdom's  side ; 
Love  ebb  and  flow  untroubled  by  caprice ; 
And  not  alone  harsh  tyranny  would  cease, 
But  unoffending  creatures  find  release 
From  qualified  oppression,  whose  defence  60 

Rests  on  a  hollow  plea  of  recompence ; 
Thought-tempered  wrongs,  for  each  humane  respect 
Oft  worse  to  bear,  or  deadlier  in  effect. 
Witness  those  glances  of  indignant  scorn 
From  some  high-minded  Slave,  impelled  to  spurn  65 

The  kindness  that  would  make  him  less  forlorn ; 
Or,  if  the  soul  to  bondage  be  subdued, 
His  look  of  pitiable  gratitude ! 

Alas  for  thee,  bright  Galaxy  of  Isles, 

Whose  day  departs  in  pomp,  returns  with  smiles —  70 

To  greet  the  flowers  and  fruitage  of  a  land, 

38  serve  1845 :  served  1836-43  40  so  1837 :  The  ready  service  of  the 
wings  MS.,  1835  45  his  creatures  1840:  existence  MS.,  1835,  1837 
45-7  Compationate  to  all  that  suffer,  just 

In  the  end  to  every  creature  born  of  dust  C 

47-8  notinMB.  52  impetuous]  and  ardent  MS.  70  Whose  1837: 
Where  MS.,  1835 


As  the  sun  mounts,  by  sea-born  breezes  fanned ; 

A  land  whose  ^zure  mountain-tops  are  seats 

For  Gods  in  council,  whose  green  vales,  retreats 

Fit  for  the  shades  of  heroes,  mingling  there  75 

To  breathe  Elysian  peace  in  upper  air. 

Though  cold  as  winter,  gloomy  as  the  grave, 
Stone-walls  a  prisoner  make,  but  not  a  slave. 
Shall  man  assume  a  property  in  man  ? 
Lay  on  the  moral  will  a  withering  ban  ?  80 

Shame  that  our  laws  at  distance  still  protect 
Enormities,  which  they  at  home  reject ! 
"Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England''  —yet  that  boast 
Is  but  a  mockery !  when  from  coast  to  coast, 
Though  fettered  slave  be  none,  her  floors  and  soil  85 

Groan  underneath  a  weight  of  slavish  toil, 
For  the  poor  Many,  measured  out  by  rules 
Fetched  with  cupidity  from  heartless  schools, 
That  to  an  Idol,  falsely  caUed  "the  Wealth 
Of  Nations",  sacrifice  a  People's  health,  90 

Body  and  mind  and  soul ;  a  thirst  so  keen 
Is  ever  urging  on  the  vast  machine 
Of  sleepless  Labour,  'mid  whose  dizzy  wheels 
The  Power  least  prized  is  that  which  thinks  and  feels. 

Then,  for  the  pastimes  of  this  delicate  age,  95 

And  all  the  heavy  or  light  vassalage 
Which  for  their  sakes  we  fasten,  as  may  suit 
Our  varying  moods,  on  human  kind  or  brute, 
'Twere  well  in  little,  as  in  great,  to  pause, 
Lest  Fancy  trifle  with  eternal  laws.  100 

Not  from  his  fellows  only  man  may  learn 
Rights  to  compare  and  duties  to  discern ! 
All  creatures  and  all  objects,  in  degree, 
Are  friends  and  patrons  of  humanity. 
There  are  to  whom  the  garden,  grove,  and  field,  105 

Perpetual  lessons  of  forbearance  yield ; 

81  still     1837:  should    MS.,  1835         83-4  so  1837:  a  proud  boast!  And 
yet  a  mockery!  if    MS.,  1835  89  to  a  monstrous  Idol  called    C 

91  The  weal  of  body  mind  and  soul ;  so  keen 

A  thirst  is  ever  .  .  .   C 
101-4  not  in  MS. :  in  1835  they  appear  as  a  motto  prefixed  to  the  poem 


Who  would  not  lightly  violate  the  grace 

The  lowliest  flower  possesses  in  its  place ; 

Nor  shorten  the  sweet  life,  too  fugitive, 

Which  nothing  less  than  Infinite  Power  could  give.        no 


[Composed  1846. — Published  I860.] 

THE  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams 

That  wastes  so  oft,  we  think,  its  tuneful  powers, 

If  neither  soothing  to  the  worm  that  gleams 

Through  dewy  grass,  nor  small  birds  hushed  in  bowers, 

Nor  unto  silent  leaves  and  drowsy  flowers, —  5 

That  voice  of  unpretending  harmony 

(For  who  what  is  shall  measure  by  what  seems 

To  be,  or  not  to  be, 

Or  tax  high  Heaven  with  prodigality  ?) 

Wants  not  a  healing  influence  that  can  creep  10 

Into  the  human  breast,  and  mix  with  sleep 

To  regulate  the  motion  of  our  dreams 

XXXII.  1  unremitting . . .  nightly]  unsuspended  . . .  mountain  MS.  1  2 
Where  Nature  seems  to  work  with  wasted  powers  MS.  1 ;  That  calls  the 
breeze  to  modulate  its  powers  MS.  2  3  That  voice  that  soothes,  perchance 
MS.  1  4  dewy]  summer,  (dusky)  MSS.  nor]  and  MSS.  5 

And  lulls  at  dewy  eve  the  shutting  flowers    MS.  1  6  not  in  MSS. 

7  For]  Yet    MSS. 

10-17  This  has  been  known  to  mingle  with  the  sleep  (That  voice,  it  has 
been  known  to  mix  with  sleep) 

Of  human  kind,  and  regulate  our  dreams 

For  kindly  issues,  as  a  knight  too  well  (Once  to  how  strange  an  issue 
he  full  well) 

Had  learned,  who  scooped  into  a  votive  cell 

Yon  rock  impending  from  the  shaggy  steep 

That  he  in  hermit's  weeds  therein  might  dwell 

For  ever  bound 

To  the  lone  river's  heart-controuling  (spirit -soothing)  sound  (To  one 
deep  solemn) 

Why,  let  these  words  to  simple  Listeners  tell.  MS.  1 

That  voice  by  night  with  healing  power  can  creep 

Into  the  human  heart  or  mix  with  sleep, 

As  knew  of  yore  the  hermit  in  his  cell 

Scooped  out  from  rocky  steep 

As  all  with  gratitude  can  tell 

Who  at  this  day  mid  Cumbrian  mountains  dwell.   MS.  2 
11  breast]  heart    MS. 


For  kindly  issues — as  through  every  clime 

Was  felt  near  murmuring  brooks  in  earliest  time ; 

As,  at  this  day,  the  rudest  swains  who  dwell  15 

Where  torrents  roar,  or  hear  the  tinkling  knell 

Of  water- breaks,  with  grateful  heart  could  tell. 


[Composed  1829.— Published  1835.] 

FLATTERED  with  promise  of  escape 

From  every  hurtful  blast, 
Spring  takes,  O  sprightly  May !  thy  shape, 

Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

Less  fair  is  summer  riding  high  5 

In  fierce  solstitial  power, 
Less  fair  than  when  a  lenient  sky 

Brings  on  her  parting  hour. 

When  earth  repays  with  golden  sheaves 

The  labours  of  the  plough,  10 

And  ripening  fruits  and  forest  leaves 
All  brighten  on  the  bough ; 

What  pensive  beauty  autumn  shows, 

Before  she  hears  the  sound 
Of  winter  rushing  in,  to  close  15 

The  emblematic  round ! 

Such  be  our  Spring,  our  Summer  such ; 

So  may  our  Autumn  blend 
With  hoary  Winter,  and  Life  touch, 

Through  heaven-born  hope,  her  end !  20 

TO  — 

[Composed  March,  1833. — Published  1835.] 

"Turn  porro  puer,  ut  saevis  projectus  ab  undis 
Navita,  nudus  humi  jacet,"  &c. — LUCBETITTS. 

LIKE  a  shipwreck'd  Sailor  tost 

By  rough  waves  on  a  perilous  coast, 

Lies  the  Babe,  in  helplessness 

XXXIII.  THOUGHTS     1850:  THOUGHT     1835-45 


And  in  tenderest  nakedness, 

Flung  by  labouring  Nature  forth  5 

Upon  the  mercies  of  the  earth. 

Can  its  eyes  beseech  ? — no  more 

Than  the  hands  are  free  to  implore : 

Voice  but  serves  for  one  brief  cry ; 

Plaint  was  it  ?  or  prophecy  10 

Of  sorrow  that  will  surely  come  ? 

Omen  of  man's  grievous  doom ! 

But,  O  Mother !  by  the  close 
Duly  granted  to  thy  throes ; 

By  the  silent  thanks,  now  tending  15 

Incense-like  to  Heaven,  descending 
Now  to  mingle  and  to  move 
With  the  gush  of  earthly  love, 
As  a  debt  to  that  frail  Creature, 
Instrument  of  struggling  Nature  20 

For  the  blissful  calm,  the  peace 
Known  but  to  this  one  release — 
Can  the  pitying  spirit  doubt 
That  for  human-kind  springs  out 
From  the  penalty  a  sense  25 

Of  more  than  mortal  recompence  ? 

As  a  floating  summer  cloud, 
Though  of  gorgeous  drapery  proud, 
To  the  sun-burnt  traveller, 

Or  the  stooping  labourer,  30 

Oft-times  makes  its  bounty  known 
By  its  shadow  round  him  thrown ; 
So,  by  chequerings  of  sad  cheer, 
Heavenly  Guardians,  brooding  near, 
Of  their  presence  tell — too  bright  35 

Haply  for  corporeal  sight ! 
Ministers  of  grace  divine 
Feelingly  their  brows  incline 
O'er  this  seeming  Castaway 

Breathing,  in  the  light  of  day,  40 

Something  like  the  faintest  breath 
That  has  power  to  baffle  death — 
Beautiful,  while  very  weakness 
Captivates  like  passive  meekness. 


And,  sweet  Mother !  under  warrant  45 

Of  the  universal  Parent, 
Who  repays  in  season  due 
Them  who  have,  like  thee,  been  true 
To  the  filial  chain  let  down 

From  his  everlasting  throne,  5° 

Angels  hovering  round  thy  couch, 
With  their  softest  whispers  vouch, 
That — whatever  griefs  may  fret, 
Cares  entangle,  sins  beset, 

This  thy  First-born,  and  with  tears  55 

Stain  her  cheek  in  future  years — 
Heavenly  succour,  not  denied 
To  the  babe,  whate'er  betide, 
Will  to  the  woman  be  supplied ! 

Mother !  blest  be  thy  calm  ease ;  60 

Blest  the  starry  promises, — 
And  the  firmament  benign 
Hallowed  be  it,  where  they  shine! 
Yes,  for  them  whose  souls  have  scope 
Ample  for  a  winged  hope,  65 

And  can  earthward  bend  an  ear 
For  needful  listening,  pledge  is  here, 
That,  if  thy  new-born  Charge  shall  tread 
In  thy  footsteps,  and  be  led 
By  that  other  Guide,  whose  light  70 

Of  manly  virtues,  mildly  bright, 
Gave  him  first  the  wished-for  part 
In  thy  gentle  virgin  heart ; 
Then,  amid  the  storms  of  life 
Presignified  by  that  dread  strife  75 

Whence  ye  have  escaped  together, 
She  may  look  for  serene  weather ; 
In  all  trials  sure  to  find 
Comfort  for  a  faithful  mind ; 
Kindlier  issues,  holier  rest,  80 

Than  even  now  await  her  prest, 
Conscious  Nursling,  to  thy  breast! 




[Composed  1833. — Published  1835.] 

LIST,  the  winds  of  March  are  blowing ; 

Her  ground-flowers  shrink,  afraid  of  showing 

Their  meek  heads  to  the  nipping  air, 

Which  ye  feel  not,  happy  pair ! 

Sunk  into  a  kindly  sleep.  5 

We,  meanwhile,  our  hope  will  keep ; 

And  if  Time  leagued  with  adverse  Change 

(Too  busy  fear!)  shall  cross  its  range, 

Whatsoever  check  they  bring, 

Anxious  duty  hindering,  10 

To  like  hope  our  prayers  will  cling. 

Thus,  while  the  ruminating  spirit  feeds 
Upon  the  events  of  home  as  life  proceeds, 
Affections  pure  and  holy  in  their  source 
Gain  a  fresh  impulse,  run  a  livelier  course ;  15 

Hopes  that  within  the  Father's  heart  prevail, 
Are  in  the  experienced  Grandsire's  slow  to  fail ; 
And  if  the  harp  pleased  his  gay  youth,  it  rings 
To  his  grave  touch  with  no  unready  strings, 
While  thoughts  press  on,  and  feelings  overflow,  20 

And  quick  words  round  him  fall  like  flakes  of  snow. 

Thanks  to  the  Powers  that  yet  maintain  their  sway, 
And  have  renewed  the  tributary  Lay, 
Truths  of  the  heart  flock  in  with  eager  pace, 
And  FANCY  greets  them  with  a  fond  embrace ;  25 

Swift  as  the  rising  «un  his  beams  extends 
She  shoots  the  tidings  forth  to  distant  friends ; 
Their  gifts  she  hails  (deemed  precious,  as  they  prove 
For  the  unconscious  Babe  so  prompt  a  love!) — 
But  from  this  peaceful  centre  of  delight  30 

Vague  sympathies  have  urged  her  to  take  flight : 
Rapt  into  upper  regions,  like  the  bee 

XXXV.  11  like]  that  C  13  so  1837:  Upon  each  home-event     1835 

23  Lay,]  Lay.     1835  etc.         29  so  prompt  a    1843:  anunbelated    1835-7: 
so  prompt  to     1840  and  C 
31/2  She  rivals  the  fleet  Swallow,  making  rings 

In  the  smooth  lake  where'er  he  dips  his  wings ;     1835 


That  sucks  from  mountain  heath  her  honey  fee, 

Or,  like  the  warbling  lark  intent  to  shroud 

His  head  in  sunbeams  or  a  bowery  cloud,  35 

She  soars — and  here  and  there  her  pinions  rest 

On  proud  towers,  like  this  humble  cottage,  blest 

With  a  new  visitant,  an  infant  guest — 

Towers  where  red  streamers  flout  the  breezy  sky 

In  pomp  foreseen  by  her  creative  eye,  40 

When  feasts  shall  crowd  the  hall,  and  steeple  bells 

Glad  proclamation  make,  and  heights  and  dells 

Catch  the  blithe  music  as  it  sinks  and  swells, 

And  harboured  ships,  whose  pride  is  on  the  sea, 

Shall  hoist  their  topmost  flags  in  sign  of  glee,  45 

Honouring  the  hope  of  noble  ancestry. 

But  who  (though  neither  reckoning  ills  assigned 
By  Nature,  nor  reviewing  in  the  mind 
The  track  that  was,  and  is,  and  must  be,  worn 
With  weary  feet  by  all  of  woman  born) —  50 

Shall  now  by  such  a  gift  with  joy  be  moved, 
Nor  feel  the  fulness  of  that  joy  reproved  ? 
Not  He,  whose  last  faint  memory  will  command 
The  truth  that  Britain  was  his  native  land ; 
Whose  infant  soul  was  tutored  to  confide  55 

In  the  cleansed  faith  for  which  her  martyrs  died ; 
Whose  boyish  ear  the  voice  of  her  renown 
With  rapture  thrilled ;  whose  Youth  revered  the  crown 
Of  Saxon  liberty  that  Alfred  wore, 

Alfred,  dear  Babe,  thy  great  Progenitor !  •       60 

— Not  He,  who  from  her  mellowed  practice  drew 
His  social  sense  of  just,  and  fair,  and  true ; 
And  saw,  thereafter,  on  the  soil  of  France 
Rash  Polity  begin  her  maniac  dance, 

Foundations  broken  up,  the  deeps  run  wild,  65 

Nor  grieved  to  see  (himself  not  unbeguiled) — 
Woke  from  the  dream,  the  dreamer  to  upbraid, 
And  learn  how  sanguine  expectations  fade 
When  novel  trusts  by  folly  are  betrayed, — 
To  see  Presumption,  turning  pale,  refrain  70 

From  further  havoc,  but  repent  in  vain, — 

43  and     1837:  or     1835 


Good  aims  lie  down,  and  perish  in  the  road 

Where  guilt  had  urged  them  on  with  ceaseless  goad, 

Proofs  thickening  round  her  that  on  public  ends 

Domestic  virtue  vitally  depends,  75 

That  civic  strife  can  turn  the  happiest  hearth 

Into  a  grievous  sore  of  self -tormenting  earth. 

Can  such  a  One,  dear  Babe !  though  glad  and  proud 
To  welcome  thee,  repel  the  fears  that  crowd 
Into  his  English  breast,  and  spare  to  quake  80 

Less  for  his  own  than  for  thy  innocent  sake  ? 
Too  late — or,  should  the  providence  of  God 
Lead,  through  dark  ways  by  sin  and  sorrow  trod, 
Justice  and  peace  to  a  secure  abode, 

Too  soon — thou  com'st  into  this  breathing  world ;  85 

Ensigns  of  mimic  outrage  are  unfurled. 
Who  shall  preserve  or  prop  the  tottering  Realm  ? 
What  hand  suffice  to  govern  the  state-helm  ? 
If,  in  the  aims  of  men,  the  surest  test 

Of  good  or  bad  (whate'er  be  sought  for  or  profest)  90 

Lie  in  the  means  required,  or  ways  ordained, 
For  compassing  the  end,  else  never  gained ; 
Yet  governors  and  govern'd  both  are  blind 
To  this  plain  truth,  or  fling  it  to  the  wind ; 
If  to  expedience  principle  must  bow ;  95 

Past,  future,  shrinking  up  beneath  the  incumbent  Now ; 
If  cowardly  concession  still  must  feed 

74r-6  so  1840:  Till  undiscriminating  Ruin  swept 

The  Land,  and  Wrong  perpetual  vigil  kept ; 
With  proof  before  her  that  etc.     1836-7 
76-7  1840:  not  in  1835,  1837: 

And  civic  strife,  by  hourly  calling  forth 
Mutual  despite  can  turn  the  happiest  hearth 
I  (Thanks  to  the  coming  phrase)  into  a  hell  on  earth 
\  Into  a  rankling  sore  of  self -tormented  earth     C 
81  so  1840:  Not  for  his  own,  but     1835-7 
82—4  Too  late  or  sent  too  early,  for  fast  bound 

To  endless  cycle  good  and  ill  turn  round    MS. 
83  dark     1840:  blind     1835-7 

88  How  save  the  good  old  Ship  whose  luckless  helm 
88/9  A  Pilot  grasps  that  plays  the  tyrant's  part 
Storm  raising  after  storm  with  treacherous  art 
If  to  confound  the  remnant  of  the  crew 
Who  yet  are  sane  in  mind  in  spirit  true,  MS. 


The  thirst  for  power  in  men  who  ne'er  concede ; 

Nor  turn  aside,  unless  to  shape  a  way 

For  domination  at  some  riper  day ;  100 

If  generous  Loyalty  must  stand  in  awe 

Of  subtle  Treason,  in  his  mask  of  law, 

Or  with  bravado  insolent  and  hard, 

Provoking  punishment,  to  win  reward ; 

If  office  help  the  factious  to  conspire,  105 

And  they  who  should  extinguish,  fan  the  fire — 

Then,  will  the  sceptre  be  a  straw,  the  crown 

Sit  loosely,  like  the  thistle's  crest  of  down ; 

To  be  blown  off  at  will,  by  Power  that  spares  it 

In  cunning  patience,  from  the  head  that  wears  it.  no 

Lost  people,  trained  to  theoretic  feud ! 
Lost  above  all,  ye  labouring  multitude ! 
Bewildered  whether  ye,  by  slanderous  tongues 
Deceived,  mistake  calamities  for  wrongs ; 
And  over  fancied  usurpations  brood,  115 

Oft  snapping  at  revenge  in  sullen  mood ; 
Or,  from  long  stress  of  real  injuries  fly 
To  desperation  for  a  remedy ; 

In  bursts  of  outrage  spread  your  judgments  wide, 
And  to  your  wrath  cry  out,  "Be  thou  our  guide ;"  120 

Or,  bound  by  oaths,  come  forth  to  tread  earth's  floor 
In  marshalled  thousands,  darkening  street  and  moor 
With  the  worst  shape  mock-patience  ever  wore ; 
Or,  to  the  giddy  top  of  self-esteem 

By  Flatterers  carried,  mount  into  a  dream  125 

Of  boundless  suffrage,  at  whose  sage  behest 
Justice  shall  rule,  disorder  be  supprest, 
And  every  man  sit  down  as  Plenty's  Guest ! 
— O  for  a  bridle  bitted  with  remorse 

To  stop  your  Leaders  in  their  headstrong  course !  130 

Oh  may  the  Almighty  scatter  with  His  grace 
These  mists,  and  lead  you  to  a  safer  place, 
By  paths  no  human  wisdom  can  foretrace ! 
May  He  pour  round  you,  from  worlds  far  above 
Man's  feverish  passions,  His  pure  light  of  love,  135 

That  quietly  restores  the  natural  mien 
To  hope,  and  makes  truth  willing  to  be  seen ! 

102  in     1837:  with     1835 

017.17  IV  I 


Else  shall  your  blood-stained  hands  in  frenzy  reap 

Fields  gaily  sown  when  promises  were  cheap — 

Why  is  the  Past  belied  with  wicked  art,  14° 

The  Future  made  to  play  so  false  a  part, 

Among  a  people  famed  for  strength  of  mind, 

Foremost  in  freedom,  noblest  of  mankind  ? 

We  act  as  if  we  joyed  in  the  sad  tune 

Storms  make  in  rising,  valued  in  the  moon  145 

Nought  but  her  changes.   Thus,  ungrateful  Nation! 

If  thou  persist,  and,  scorning  moderation, 

Spread  for  thyself  the  snares  of  tribulation, 

Whom,  then,  shall  meekness  guard  ?  What  savage  skill 

Lie  in  forbearance,  strength  in  standing  still  ?  150 

— Soon  shall  the  widow  (for  the  speed  of  Time 

Nought  equals  when  the  hours  are  winged  with  crime) 

Widow,  or  wife,  implore  on  tremulous  knee, 

From  him  who  judged  her  lord,  a  like  decree ; 

The  skies  will  weep  o'er  old  men  desolate ;  155 

Ye  little-ones !  Earth  shudders  at  your  fate, 

Outcasts  and  homeless  orphans 

But  turn,  my  Soul,  and  from  the  sleeping  pair 
Learn  thou  the  beauty  of  omniscient  care ! 
Be  strong  in  faith,  bid  anxious  thoughts  lie  still ;  160 

Seek  for  the  good  and  cherish  it — the  ill 
Oppose,  or  bear  with  a  submissive  will. 


("Composed  Dec,  5,  1833. — Published  1835.] 

IF  this  j^reat  world  of  joy  and  pain 

Revolve  in  one  sure  track ; 
If  freedom,  set,  will  rise  again, 

And  virtue,  flown,  come  back ; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  fill 

The  heart  with  each  day's  care ; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 

To  bear,  and  to  forbear ! 

141-2  Why  plays  Futurity  this  shameless  part 

To  cheat  MS. 
XXXVI.    7  gain]  learn  MS. 



[Composed  1834. — Published  1835.] 

UP  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne 
The  voice  of  praise  at  early  morn, 
And  he  accepts  the  punctual  hymn 
Sung  as  the  light  of  day  grows  dim. 

Nor  will  he  turn  his  ear  aside  5 

From  holy  offerings  at  noontide. 
Then  here  reposing  let  us  raise 
A  song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

What  though  our  burthen  be  not  light, 

We  need  not  toil  from  morn  to  night ;  10 

The  respite  of  the  mid-day  hour 

Is  in  the  thankful  Creature's  power. 

Blest  are  the  moments,  doubly  blest, 

That,  drawn  from  this  one  hour  of  rest, 

Are  with  a  ready  heart  bestowed  15 

Upon  the  service  of  our  God ! 

Each  field  is  then  a  hallowed  spot, 

An  altar  is  in  each  man's  cot, 

A  church  in  every  grove  that  spreads 

Its  living  roof  above  our  heads.  20 

Look  up  to  Heaven !  the  industrious  Sun 
Already  half  his  race  hath  run ; 
He  cannot  halt  nor  go  astray, 
But  our  immortal  Spirits  may. 

Lord !  since  his  rising  in  the  East,  25 

If  we  have  faltered  or  transgressed, 
Guide,  from  thy  love's  abundant  source, 
What  yet  remains  of  this  day's  course : 

Help  with  thy  grace,  through  life's  short  day, 

Our  upward  and  our  downward  way ;  30 

And  glorify  for  us  the  west, 

Where  we  shall  sink  to  final  rest. 

XXXVII.  17  so  1845:  Why  should  we  crave  a     1836-43 



[Composed  1826.— Published  1835.] 

WHILE  from  the  purpling  east  departs 

The  star  that  led  the  dawn, 
Blithe  Flora  from  her  couch  upstarts, 

For  May  is  on  the  lawn. 
A  quickening  hope,  a  freshening  glee,  5 

Foreran  the  expected  Power, 
Whose  first-drawn  breath,  from  bush  and  tree, 

Shakes  off  that  pearly  shower. 

All  Nature  welcomes  Her  whose  sway 

Tempers  the  year's  extremes ;  10 

Who  scattereth  lustres  o'er  noon-day, 

Like  morning's  dewy  gleams ; 
While  mellow  warble,  sprightly  trill, 

The  tremulous  heart  excite ; 
And  hums  the  balmy  air  to  still  15 

The  balance  of  delight. 

Time  was,  blest  Power !  when  youths  and  maids 

At  peep  of  dawn  would  rise, 
And  wander  forth,  in  forest  glades 

Thy  birth  to  solemnize.  20 

Though  mute  the  song — to  grace  the  rite 

Untouched  the  hawthorn  bough, 
Thy  Spirit  triumphs  o'er  the  slight ; 

Man  changes,  but  not  Thou ! 

Thy  feathered  Lieges  bill  and  wings  25 

In  love's  disport  employ ; 
Warmed  by  thy  influence,  creeping  things 

Awake  to  silent  joy: 
Queen  art  thou  still  for  each  gay  plant 

XXXVIII.  8/9  Here  follows  XXXIX  17-24     MS. 
0-11  What  month  can  rival  thee,  sweet  May, 
Tempering  .  .  .  And  scattering  .  .  .     MS. 

11  And  breathes  a  freshness  o'er  MS.  1  15  And  a  soothing  hum  prevails. 
MS.  1  17  blest  Power!  when]  when  courtly  MS.  18  peep]  blush  MSS. 
19  in  forest]  blest  Power!  in  MS. 


Where  the  slim  wild  deer  roves ;  3° 

And  served  in  depths  where  fishes  haunt 

Their  own  mysterious  groves. 
Cloud-piercing  peak,  and  trackless  heath, 

Instinctive  homage  pay ; 
Nor  wants  the  dim-lit  cave  a  wreath  35 

To  honour  thee,  sweet  May ! 
Where  cities  fanned  by  thy  brisk  airs 

Behold  a  smokeless  sky, 
Their  puniest  flower-pot-nursling  dares 

To  open  a  bright  eye.  4° 

And  if,  on  this  thy  natal  morn, 

The  pole,  from  which  thy  name 
Hath  not  departed,  stands  forlorn 

Of  song  and  dance  and  game ; 
Still  from  the  village-green  a  vow  45 

Aspires  to  thee  addrest, 
Wherever  peace  is  on  the  brow, 

Or  love  within  the  breast. 
Yes !  where  Love  nestles  thou  canst  teach 

The  soul  to  love  the  more ;  5° 

Hearts  also  shall  thy  lessons  reach 

That  never  loved  before. 
Stript  is  the  haughty  one  of  pride, 

The  bashful  freed  from  fear, 
While  rising,  like  the  ocean-tide,  55 

In  flows  the  joyous  year. 

Hush,  feeble  lyre !  weak  words  refuse 

The  service  to  prolong ! 
To  yon  exulting  thrush  the  Muse 

Entrusts  the  imperfect  song ;  60 

His  voice  shall  chant,  in  accents  clear, 

Throughout  the  live-long  day, 
Till  the  first  silver  star  appear, 

The  sovereignty  of  May. 

33  trackless]  desart  MS.  34  homage]  tribute  MSS. 

37—40  But  most  some  little  favorite  nook 

That  our  own  hands  have  drest 

Upon  thy  train  delights  to  look 

And  seems  to  love  thee  best.  MSS.  v.  To  May  XXXIX.  45-8  infra 
41  And  what  if  on  thy  birthday  MS.  63  The  haughty  Ones  are  stripped 




[Composed  1826-34.— Published  1835.] 

THOUGH  many  suns  have  risen  and  set 

Since  thou,  blithe  May,  wert  born, 
And  Bards,  who  hailed  thee,  may  forget 

Thy  gifts,  thy  beauty  scorn ; 
There  are  who  to  a  birthday  strain  5 

Confine  not  harp  and  voice, 
But  evermore  throughout  thy  reign 

Are  grateful  and  rejoice! 

Delicious  odours !  music  sweet, 

Too  sweet  to  pass  away!  10 

Oh  for  a  deathless  song  to  meet 

The  soul's  desire — a  lay 
That,  when  a  thousand  years  are  told, 

Should  praise  thee,  genial  Power ! 
Through  summer  heat,  autumnal  cold,  15 

And  winter's  dreariest  hour. 

Earth,  sea,  thy  presence  feel — nor  less, 

If  yon  ethereal  blue 
With  its  soft  smile  the  truth  express, 

The  heavens  have  felt  it  too.  20 

The  inmost  heart  of  man  if  glad 

Partakes  a  livelier  cheer ; 
And  eyes  that  cannot  but  be  sad 

Let  fall  a  brightened  tear. 

Since  thy  return,  through  days  and  weeks  25 

Of  hope  that  grew  by  stealth, 
How  many  wan  and  faded  cheeks 

Have  kindled  into  health ! 
The  Old,  by  thee  revived,  have  said, 

"Another  year  is  ours ;"  30 

And  wayworn  Wanderers,  poorly  fed, 

Have  smiled  upon  thy  flowers. 

XXXIX.  1  many]  twelve  bright  MS.  5  birthday]  natal  MS.  11 
meet]  greet  MS.  12  The  soul's  desire]  Thy  blest  return  MS.  17- 
24  not  in  MS.  31-2  Perhaps  the  [And  many  a]  poor  man  wanting 

bread  Has    MS. 


Who  tripping  lisps  a  merry  song 

Amid  his  playful  peers  ? 
The  tender  Infant  who  was  long  35 

A  prisoner  of  fond  fears ; 
But  now,  when  every  sharp-edged  blast 

Is  quiet  in  its  sheath, 
His  Mother  leaves  him  free  to  taste 

Earth's  sweetness  in  thy  breath.  40 

Thy  help  is  with  the  weed  that  creeps 

Along  the  humblest  ground ; 
No  cliff  so  bare  but  on  its  steeps 

Thy  favours  may  be  found ; 
But  most  on  some  peculiar  nook  45 

That  our  own  hands  have  drest, 
Thou  and  thy  train  are  proud  to  look, 

And  seem  to  love  it  best. 

And  yet  how  pleased  we  wander  forth 

When  May  is  whispering,  "Come!  50 

Choose  from  the  bowers  of  virgin  earth 

The  happiest  for  your  home ; 
Heaven's  bounteous  love  through  me  is  spread 

From  sunshine,  clouds,  winds,  waves, 
Drops  on  the  mouldering  turret's  head,  55 

And  on  your  turf-clad  graves!" 

Such  greeting  heard,  away  with  sighs 

For  lilies  that  must  fade, 
Or  "the  rathe  primrose  as  it  dies 

Forsaken"  in  the  shade !  60 

Vernal  fruitions  and  desires 

Are  linked  in  endless  chase  ; 
While,  as  one  kindly  growth  retires, 

Another  takes  its  place. 

And  what  if  thou,  sweet  May,  hast  known  65 

Mishap  by  worm  and  blight ; 
If  expectations  newly  blown 

Have  perished  in  thy  sight ; 

61-2  In  every  bower  of  ...  Is  built  a  happy    MS.        65-6  And  if,  sweet 
May,  thy  hopes  have  known  Mishap  from    MS. 


If  loves  and  joys,  while  up  they  sprung, 

Were  caught  as  in  a  snare ;  70 

Such  is  the  lot  of  all  the  young, 
However  bright  and  fair. 

Lo !  Streams  that  April  could  not  check 

Are  patient  of  thy  rule ; 
Gurgling  in  foamy  water-break,  75 

Loitering  in  glassy  pool : 
By  thee,  thee  only,  could  be  sent 

Such  gentle  mists  as  glide, 
Curling  with  unconfirmed  intent, 

On  that  green  mountain's  side.  80 

How  delicate  the  leafy  veil 

Through  which  yon  house  of  God 
Gleams  'mid  the  peace  of  this  deep  dale 

By  few  but  shepherds  trod ! 
And  lowly  huts,  near  beaten  ways,  85 

No  sooner  stand  attired 
In  thy  fresh  wreaths,  than  they  for  praise 

Peep  forth,  and  are  admired. 

Season  of  fancy  and  of  hope, 

Permit  not  for  one  hour  90 

A  blossom  from  thy  crown  to  drop, 

Nor  add  to  it  a  flower ! 
Keep,  lovely  May,  as  if  by  touch 

Of  self-restraining  art, 
This  modest  charm  of  not  too  much,  95 

Part  seen,  imagined  part ! 


[Composed  1834.— Published  1835.] 

BEGUILED  into  forgetfulness  of  care 
Due  to  the  day's  unfinished  task ;  of  pen 
Or  book  regardless,  and  of  that  fair  scene 

72  The  doom  of  all  the    MS.  81  the]  a    MS.         82  Through  which 

yon]  To  grace  (Half  hides)  the    MS.  83  Hast  thou  renewed  (Thy 

network  wov'n)  in    MS.        93  So  perfect  now  is  that  fine  touch    MS. 


In  Nature's  prodigality  displayed 

Before  my  window,  oftentimes  and  long  5 

I  gaze  upon  a  Portrait  whose  mild  gleam 

Of  beauty  never  ceases  to  enrich 

The  common  light ;  whose  stillness  charms  the  air, 

Or  seems  to  charm  it,  into  like  repose ; 

Whose  silence,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  ear,  10 

Surpasses  sweetest  music.  There  she  sits 

With  emblematic  purity  attired 

In  a  white  vest,  white  as  her  marble  neck 

Is,  and  the  pillar  of  the  throat  would  be 

But  for  the  shadow  by  the  drooping  chin  15 

Cast  into  that  recess — the  tender  shade, 

The  shade  and  light,  both  there  and  everywhere, 

And  through  the  very  atmosphere  she  breathes, 

Broad,  clear,  and  toned  harmoniously,  with  skill 

That  might  from  nature  have  been  learnt  in  the  hour         20 

When  the  lone  shepherd  sees  the  morning  spread 

Upon  the  mountains.  Look  at  her,  whoe'er 

Thou  be  that,  kindling  with  a  poet's  soul, 

Hast  loved  the  painter's  true  Promethean  craft 

Intensely — from  Imagination  take  25 

The  treasure, — what  mine  eyes  behold  see  thou, 

Even  though  the  Atlantic  ocean  roll  between. 

A  silver  line,  that  runs  from  brow  to  crown 
And  in  the  middle  parts  the  braided  hair, 
Just  serves  to  show  how  delicate  a  soil  30 

The  golden  harvest  grows  in ;  and  those  eyes, 
Soft  and  capacious  as  a  cloudless  sky 
Whose  azure  depth  their  colour  emulates, 
Must  needs  be  conversant  with  upward  looks, 
Prayer's  voiceless  service ;  but  now,  seeking  nought  35 

And  shunning  nought,  their  own  peculiar  life 
Of  motion  they  renounce,  and  with  the  head 
Partake  its  inclination  towards  earth 
In  humble  grace,  and  quiet  pensiveness 
Caught  at  the  point  where  it  stops  short  of  sadness.  40 

Offspring  of  soul-bewitching  Art,  make  me 
Thy  confidant !  say,  whence  derived  that  air 
Of  calm  abstraction  ?  Can  the  ruling  thought 
23-4  Thou  be  that  lov'st  the  Painter's  subtle  craft    MS. 


Be  with  some  lover  far  away,  or  one 

Crossed  by  misfortune,  or  of  doubted  faith  ?  45 

Inapt  conjecture !  Childhood  here,  a  moon 

Crescent  in  simple  loveliness  serene, 

Has  but  approached  the  gates  of  womanhood, 

Not  entered  them ;  her  heart  is  yet  unpierced 

By  the  blind  Archer-god ;  her  fancy  free :  50 

The  fount  of  feeling,  if  unsought  elsewhere, 

Will  not  be  found. 

Her  right  hand,  as  it  lies 
Across  the  slender  wrist  of  the  left  arm 
Upon  her  lap  reposing,  holds — but  mark 
How  slackly,  for  the  absent  mind  permits  55 

No  firmer  grasp — a  little  wild-flower,  joined 
As  in  a  posy,  with  a  few  pale  ears 
Of  yellowing  corn,  the  same  that  overtopped 
And  in  their  common  birthplace  sheltered  it 
Till  they  were  plucked  together ;  a  blue  flower  60 

Called  by  the  thrifty  husbandman  a  weed ; 
But  Ceres,  in  her  garland,  might  have  worn 
That  ornament,  unblamed.  The  floweret,  held 
In  scarcely  conscious  fingers,  was,  she  knows, 
(Her  Father  told  her  so)  in  youth's  gay  dawn  65 

Her  Mother's  favourite ;  and  the  orphan  Girl, 
In  her  own  dawn — a  dawn  less  gay  and  bright, 
Loves  it,  while  there  in  solitary  peace 
She  sits,  for  that  departed  Mother's  sake. 
— Not  from  a  source  less  sacred  is  derived  70 

(Surely  I  do  not  err)  that  pensive  air 
Of  calm  abstraction  through  the  face  diffused 
And  the  whole  person. 

Words  have  something  told 
More  than  the  pencil  can,  and  verily 

More  than  is  needed,  but  the  precious  Art  75 

Forgives  their  interference — Art  divine, 
That  both  creates  and  fixes,  in  despite 
Of  Death  and  Time,  the  marvels  it  hath  wrought. 

Strange  contrasts  have  we  in  this  world  of  ours ! 
That  posture,  and  the  look  of  filial  love  80 

Thinking  of  past  and  gone,  with  what  is  left 
Dearly  united,  might  be  swept  away 


From  this  fair  Portrait's  fleshly  Archetype, 

Even  by  an  innocent  fancy's  slightest  freak 

Banished,  nor  ever,  haply,  be  restored  85 

To  their  lost  place,  or  meet  in  harmony 

So  exquisite ;  but  here  do  they  abide, 

Enshrined  for  ages.  Is  not  then  the  Art 

Godlike,  a  humble  branch  of  the  divine, 

In  visible  quest  of  immortality,  90 

Stretched  forth  with  trembling  hope  ? — In  every  realm, 

From  high  Gibraltar  to  Siberian  plains, 

Thousands,  in  each  variety  of  tongue 

That  Europe  knows,  would  echo  this  appeal ; 

One  above  all,  a  Monk  who  waits  on  God  95 

In  the  magnific  Convent  built  of  yore 

To  sanctify  the  Escurial  palace.  He — 

Guiding,  from  cell  to  cell  and  room  to  room, 

A  British  Painter  (eminent  for  truth 

In  character,  and  depth  of  feeling,  shown  100 

By  labours  that  have  touched  the  hearts  of  kings, 

And  are  endeared  to  simple  cottagers) — 

Came,  in  that  service,  to  a  glorious  work, 

Our  Lord's  Last  Supper,  beautiful  as  when  first 

The  appropriate  Picture,  fresh  from  Titian's  hand,  105 

Graced  the  Refectory:  and  there,  while  both 

Stood  with  eyes  fixed  upon  that  masterpiece, 

The  hoary  Father  in  the  Stranger's  ear 

Breathed  out  these  words: — "Here  daily  do  we  sit, 

Thanks  given  to  God  for  daily  bread,  and  here  no 

Pondering  the  mischiefs  of  these  restless  times, 

And  thinking  of  my  Brethren,  dead,  dispersed, 

Or  changed  and  changing,  I  not  seldom  gaze 

Upon  this  solemn  Company  unmoved 

By  shock  of  circumstance,  or  lapse  of  years,  115 

Until  I  cannot  but  believe  that  they — 

They  are  in  truth  the  Substance,  we  the  Shadows." 

So  spake  the  mild  Jeronymite,  his  griefs 
Melting  away  within  him  like  a  dream 
Ere  he  had  ceased  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  speak:  120 

And  I,  grown  old,  but  in  a  happier  land, 

103  so  1837:  Left  not  unvisited  a    MS.,  1835  106-7  and  .  .  .  master- 

piece]  There  while  the  eyes  Of  both  upon  that  Masterpiece  were  fixed    MS. 


Domestic  Portrait !  have  to  verse  consigned 

In  thy  calm  presence  those  heart-moving  words : 

Words  that  can  soothe,  more  than  they  agitate ; 

Whose  spirit,  like  the  angel  that  went  down  125 

Into  Bethesda's  pool,  with  healing  virtue 

Informs  the  fountain  in  the  human  breast 

Which  by  the  visitation  was  disturbed. 

But  why  this  stealing  tear  ?  Companion  mute, 

On  thee  I  look,  not  sorrowing ;  fare  thee  well,  130 

My  Song's  Inspirer,  once  again  farewell!1 


[Composed  1834.— Published  1835.] 

AMONG  a  grave  fraternity  of  Monks, 

For  One,  but  surely  not  for  One  alone, 

Triumphs,  in  that  great  work,  the  Painter's  skill, 

Humbling  the  body,  to  exalt  the  soul ; 

Yet  representing,  amid  wreck  and  wrong  5 

And  dissolution  and  decay,  the  warm 

And  breathing  life  of  flesh,  as  if  already 

Clothed  with  impassive  majesty,  and  graced 

With  no  mean  earnest  of  a  heritage 

Assigned  to  it  in  future  worlds.  Thou,  too,  10 

With  thy  memorial  flower,  meek  Portraiture ! 

From  whose  serene  companionship  I  passed, 

Pursued  by  thoughts  that  haunt  me  still ;  thou  also — 

Though  but  a  simple  object,  into  light 

Called  forth  by  those  affections  that  endear  15 

Thy  private  hearth ;  though  keeping  thy  sole  seat 

In  singleness,  and  little  tried  by  time, 

Creation,  as  it  were,  of  yesterday — 

1  The  pile  of  buildings  composing  the  palace  and  convent  of  San  Lorenzo 
has,  in  common  usage,  lost  its  proper  name  in  that  of  the  Escurial,  a  village 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  upon  which  the  splendid  edifice,  built  by  Philip  the 
Second,  stands.  It  need  scarcely  be  added  that  Wilkie  is  the  painter 
alluded  to. 

124-30  Added  to  MS.  on  separate  sheet  128  Which  1837:  That  1835 

131  And  now,  my  Song's  Inspirer,  fare  thee  well.  MS. 
XLI.  4  MS.  omits  6  Yet]  By   MS.  8-9  Clothed  with  a  portion 

of  the  inheritance  MS. 


With  a  congenial  function  art  endued 

For  each  and  all  of  us,  together  joined  20 

In  course  of  nature  under  a  low  roof 

By  charities  and  duties  that  proceed 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  a  wiser  vow. 

To  a  like  salutary  sense  of  awe 

Or  sacred  wonder,  growing  with  the  power  25 

Of  meditation  that  attempts  to  weigh, 

In  faithful  scales,  things  and  their  opposites, 

Can  thy  enduring  quiet  gently  raise 

A  household  small  and  sensitive, — whose  love, 

Dependent  as  in  part  its  blessings  are  30 

Upon  frail  ties  dissolving  or  dissolved 

On  earth,  will  be  revived,  we  trust,  in  heaven.1 


[Composed  August,  1844. — Published  1845.] 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive, 

Would  that  the  little  Flowers  were  born  to  live, 

Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  which  they  give ; 

That  to  this  mountain-daisy's  self  were  known 

The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow,  thrown  5 

On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stone ! 

And  what  if  hence  a  bold  desire  should  mount 
High  as  the  Sun,  that  he  could  take  account 
Of  all  that  issues  from  his  glorious  fount ! 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign  aid  10 

These  delicate  companionships  are  made ; 
And  how  he  rules  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade ; 

1  In  the  class  entitled  "Musings",  in  Mr.  Southey's  Minor  Poems,  is  one 
upon  his  own  miniature  Picture,  taken  in  childhood,  and  another  upon  a 
landscape  painted  by  Caspar  Poussin.  It  is  possible  that  every  word  of  the 
above  verses,  though  similar  in  subject,  might  have  been  written  had  the 
author  been  unacquainted  with  those  beautiful  effusions  of  poetic  sentiment. 
But,  for  his  own  satisfaction,  he  must  be  allowed  thus  publicly  to  acknow- 
ledge the  pleasure  those  two  Poems  of  his  Friend  have  given  him,  and  the 
grateful  influence  they  have  upon  his  mind  as  often  as  he  reads  them  or 
thinks  of  them. 

XLII.  C  heads  the  poem  Suggested  at  noon  on  Loughrigg  Fell  and  alterna- 
tively To  the  noontide  Sun        1  fair  and     C       6  Its  sole  companion  on     C 


And  were  the  Sister-power  that  shines  by  night 

So  privileged,  what  a  countenance  of  delight 

Would  through  the  clouds  break  forth  on  human  sight !    15 

Fond  fancies !  wheresoe'er  shall  turn  thine  eye 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  or  the  starry  sky, 
Converse  with  Nature  in  pure  sympathy ; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes  quelled, 

Be  Thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  impelled,  20 

Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld. 



[Composed  1835-6. — Published  1837.] 

WHO  rashly  strove  thy  Image  to  portray  ? 

Thou  buoyant  minion  of  the  tropic  air ; 

How  could  he  think  of  the  live  creature — gay 

With  a  divinity  of  colours,  drest 

In  all  her  brightness,  from  the  dancing  crest  5 

Far  as  the  last  gleam  of  the  filmy  train 

Extended  and  extending  to  sustain 

The  motions  that  it  graces — and  forbear 

To  drop  his  pencil !  Flowers  of  every  clime 

Depicted  on  these  pages  smile  at  time ;  10 

And  gorgeous  insects  copied  with  nice  care 

Are  here,  and  likenesses  of  many  a  shell 

Tossed  ashore  by  restless  waves, 

Or  in  the  diver's  grasp  fetched  up  from  caves 

Where  sea-nymphs  might  be  proud  to  dwell :  15 

But  whose  rash  hand  (again  I  ask)  could  dare, 

'Mid  casual  tokens  and  promiscuous  shows, 

To  circumscribe  this  Shape  in  fixed  repose ; 

Could  imitate  for  indolent  survey, 

XLII.  16  turn]  range  MS. 

16-17  Fond  fancies!  bred  between  a  smile  and  sigh 

Do  thou  more  wise,  where'er  thou  turn'st  thine  eye     C 

(.  .  *  wheresoever  shall  range  thine  eye 

Among  the  forms  and  powers  of  earth  or  sky)     C 
19-20  A  thankful  heart,  all  lawless  wishes  quell'd, 

To  joy,  to  praise,  to  love  alike  compelTd,     C 


Perhaps  for  touch  profane,  20 

Plumes  that  might  catch,  but  cannot  keep,  a  stain ; 
And,  with  cloud-streaks  lightest  and  loftiest,  share 
The  sun's  first  greeting,  his  last  farewell  ray! 

Resplendent  Wanderer !  followed  with  glad  eyes 
Where'er  her  course ;  mysterious  Bird !  25 

To  whom,  by  wondering  Fancy  stirred, 
Eastern  Islanders  have  given 
A  holy  name — the  Bird  of  Heaven! 
And  even  a  title  higher  still, 

The  Bird  of  God!  whose  blessed  will  3° 

She  seems  performing  as  she  flies 
Over  the  earth  and  through  the  skies 
In  never- wearied  search  of  Paradise — 
Region  that  crowns  her  beauty  with  the  name 
She  bears  for  us — for  us  how  blest,  35 

How  happy  at  all  seasons,  could  like  aim 
Uphold  our  Spirits  urged  to  kindred  flight 
On  wings  that  fear  no  glance  of  God's  pure  sight, 
No  tempest  from  his  breath,  their  promised  rest 
Seeking  with  indefatigable  quest  40 

Above  a  world  that  deems  itself  most  wise 
When  most  enslaved  by  gross  realities ! 



[Composed  1831. — Published  1835.] 

"PEOPLE  !  your  chains  are  severing  link  by  link ; 

Soon  shall  the  Rich  be  levelled  down — the  Poor 

Meet  them  half  way."    Vain  boast!  for  These,  the  more 

They  thus  would  rise,  must  low  and  lower  sink 

Till,  by  repentance  stung,  they  fear  to  think ;  5 

While  all  lie  prostrate,  save  the  tyrant  few 

Bent  in  quick  turns  each  other  to  undo, 

And  mix  the  poison,  they  themselves  must  drink. 

Mistrust  thyself,  vain  Country !  cease  to  cry, 

"Knowledge  will  save  me  from  the  threatened  woe."     10 

For,  if  than  other  rash  ones  more  thou  know, 

Yet  on  presumptuous  wing  as  far  would  fly 

Above  thy  knowledge  as  they  dared  to  go, 

Thou  wilt  provoke  a  heavier  penalty. 



[Composed  1832. — Published  1832.] 
RELUCTANT  call  it  was ;  the  rite  delayed ; 
And  in  the  Senate  some  there  were  who  doffed 
The  last  of  their  humanity,  and  scoffed 
At  providential  judgments,  undismayed 
By  their  own  daring.  But  the  People  prayed  5 

As  with  one  voice ;  their  flinty  heart  grew  soft 
With  penitential  sorrow,  and  aloft 
Their  spirit  mounted,  crying,  "God  us  aid!" 
Oh  that  with  aspirations  more  intense, 
Chastised  by  self-abasement  more  profound,  10 

This  People,  once  so  happy,  so  renowned 
For  liberty,  would  seek  from  God  defence 
Against  far  heavier  ill,  the  pestilence 
Of  revolution,  impiously  unbound ! 

I.  9  Proud  country  fear  the  worst,  though  millions  cry   MS  12  And 
yet  from  change  to  change  MS. 

II.  4  judgments    1838:  judgment    1832-7  9-10  so  1837:  with  soul- 
aspirings  ...  And  heart -humiliations    1832           11  once    1837:  long    1832 



[Composed  1838. — Published:   Sonnet- vol.  of  1838.] 

SAID  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud, 

Falsehood  and  Treachery,  in  close  council  met, 

Deep  under  ground,  in  Pluto's  cabinet, 

"The  frost  of  England's  pride  will  soon  be  thawed ; 

Hooded  the  open  brow  that  overawed  5 

Our  schemes ;  the  faith  and  honour,  never  yet 

By  us  with  hope  encountered,  be  upset ; — 

For  once  I  burst  my  bands,  and  cry,  applaud!" 

Then  whispered  she,  "The  Bill  is  carrying  out!" 

They  heard,  and,  starting  up,  the  Brood  of  Night  10 

Clapped  hands,  and  shook  with  glee  their  matted  locks ; 

All  Powers  and  Places  that  abhor  the  light 

Joined  in  the  transport,  echoed  back  their  shout, 

Hurrah  for ,  hugging  his  ballot-box ! 


[Composed  1838. — Published:  Sonnet-vol.  of  1838.] 

BLEST  Statesman  He,  whose  Mind's  unselfish  will 

Leaves  him  at  ease  among  grand  thoughts :  whose  eye 

Sees  that,  apart  from  magnanimity, 

Wisdom  exists  not ;  nor  the  humbler  skill 

Of  Prudence,  disentangling  good  and  ill  5 

With  patient  care.  What  tho'  assaults  run  high, 

They  daunt  not  him  who  holds  his  ministry, 

Resolute,  at  all  hazards,  to  fulfil 

Its  duties ; — prompt  to  move,  but  firm  to  wait, — 

Knowing,  things  rashly  sought  are  rarely  found ;  10 

That,  for  the  functions  of  an  ancient  State — 

Strong  by  her  charters,  free  because  imbound, 

Servant  of  Providence,  not  slave  of  Fate — 

Perilous  is  sweeping  change,  all  chance  unsound. 

Hi.   14  ]  Grote  MS. 

IV.  2  him    1842:  her     C  and  1838          6  though     1838:  if    C          11  for 
1838:  in  14  "All  change  is  perilous  and  all  chance  unsound"   C 

017.17  IV  K 



[Composed  ?. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

PORTENTOUS  change  when  History  can  appear 

As  the  cool  Advocate  of  foul  device ; 

Reckless  audacity  extol,  and  jeer 

At  consciences  perplexed  with  scruples  nice ! 

They  who  bewail  not,  must  abhor,  the  sneer  5 

Born  of  Conceit,  Power's  blind  Idolater ; 

Or  haply  sprung  from  vaunting  Cowardice 

Betrayed  by  mockery  of  holy  fear. 

Hath  it  not  long  been  said  the  wrath  of  Man 

Works  not  the  righteousness  of  God  ?  Oh  bend,  10 

Bend,  ye  Perverse!  to  judgments  from  on  High, 

Laws  that  lay  under  Heaven's  perpetual  ban 

All  principles  of  action  that  transcend 

The  sacred  limits  of  humanity. 


[Composed  ?. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

WHO  ponders  National  events  shall  find 

An  awful  balancing  of  loss  and  gain, 

Joy  based  on  sorrow,  good  with  ill  combined, 

And  proud  deliverance  issuing  out  of  pain 

And  direful  throes ;  as  if  the  All-ruling  Mind,  5 

With  whose  "perfection  it  consists  to  ordain 

Volcanic  burst,  earthquake,  and  hurricane, 

Dealt  in  like  sort  with  feeble  human  kind 

By  laws  immutable.  But  woe  for  him 

Who  thus  deceived  shall  lend  an  eager  hand  10 

To  social  havoc.   Is  not  Conscience  ours, 

And  Truth,  whose  eye  guilt  only  can  make  dim ; 

And  Will,  whose  office,  by  divine  command, 

Is  to  control  and  check  disordered  Powers  ? 

V.  1-2  can  leer 

With  prurient  levity  on  foul  device  MS. 



[Composed  ?. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

LONG-FAVOURED  England !  be  not  thou  misled 

By  monstrous  theories  of  alien  growth, 

Lest  alien  frenzy  seize  thee,  waxing  wroth. 

Self-smitten  till  thy  garments  reek  dyed  red 

With  thy  own  blood,  which  tears  in  torrents  shed  5 

Fail  to  wash  out,  tears  flowing  ere  thy  troth 

Be  plighted,  not  to  ease  but  sullen  sloth, 

Or  wan  despair — the  ghost  of  false  hope  fled 

Into  a  shameful  grave.  Among  thy  youth, 

My  Country!  if  such  warning  be  held  dear,  10 

Then  shall  a  Veteran's  heart  be  thrilled  with  joy, 

One  who  would  gather  from  eternal  truth, 

For  time  and  season,  rules  that  work  to  cheer — 

Not  scourge,  to  save  the  People — not  destroy. 


[Composed  1839. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

MEN  of  the  Western  World!  in  Fate's  dark  book 

Whence  these  opprobrious  leaves  of  dire  portent  ? 

Think  ye  your  British  Ancestors  forsook 

Their  native  Land,  for  outrage  provident ; 

From  unsubmissive  necks  the  bridle  shook  5 

To  give,  in  their  Descendants,  freer  vent 

And  wider  range  to  passions  turbulent, 

To  mutual  tyranny  a  deadlier  look  ? 

Nay,  said  a  voice,  soft  as  the  south  wind's  breath, 

Dive  through  the  stormy  surface  of  the  flood  10 

To  the  great  current  flowing  underneath ; 

Explore  the  countless  springs  of  silent  good ; 

So  shall  the  truth  be  better  understood, 

And  thy  grieved  Spirit  brighten  strong  in  faith. 

VII.  9-11  If  but  one  youth 

Thy  Son,  my  Country !  hold  this  warning  dear 
...  an  old  Man's  heart  MS. 

VIII.  4  native  Land]  narrow  Isle  MS.  5  Think  ye  they  fled 
restraints  they  ill  could  brook  MS.             9  voice  more  soft  than  Zephyr's 
MS.         12  Explore]  Think  on  MS.  1 ;  Mark  well  MS.  2         13  be  known 
and  understood  MS. 




[Composed  probably  January  or  February,  1845. — Published  1845.] 
DAYS  undefiled  by  luxury  or  sloth, 
Firm  self-denial,  manners  grave  and  staid, 
Bights  equal,  laws  with  cheerfulness  obeyed, 
Words  that  require  no  sanction  from  an  oath, 
And  simple  honesty  a  common  growth —  5 

This  high  repute,  with  bounteous  Nature's  aid, 
Won  confidence,  now  ruthlessly  betrayed 
At  will,  your  power  the  measure  of  your  troth ! — 
All  who  revere  the  memory  of  Penn 

Grieve  for  the  land  on  whose  wild  woods  his  name  10 

Was  fondly  grafted  with  a  virtuous  aim, 
Renounced,  abandoned  by  degenerate  Men 
For  state-dishonour  black  as  ever  came 
To  upper  air  from  Mammon's  loathsome  den. 



[Composed  probably  1837. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 
AH  why  deceive  ourselves !  by  no  mere  fit 
Of  sudden  passion  roused  shall  men  attain 
True  freedom  where  for  ages  they  have  lain 
Bound  in  a  dark  abominable  pit, 

With  life's  best  sinews  more  and  more  unknit.  5 

Here,  there,  a  banded  few  who  loathe  the  chain 
May  rise  to  break  it :  effort  worse  than  vain 
For  thee,  O  great  Italian  nation,  split 
Into  those  jarring  fractions. — Let  thy  scope 
Be  one  fixed  mind  for  all ;  thy  rights  approve  10 

To  thy  own  conscience  gradually  renewed ; 
Learn  to  make  Time  the  father  of  wise  Hope ; 
Then  trust  thy  cause  to  the  arm  of  Fortitude, 
The  light  of  Knowledge,  and  the  warmth  of  Love. 

X.  7  May  strive  to  spurn  MS. 
9-10  Ere  thou  cope 

Uprisen,  with  baleful  sway 
corr.  to      Thy  first  scope 

Be  unity  of  mind     MS. 




[Composed  probably  1837.— Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

HARD  task !  exclaim  the  undisciplined,  to  lean 

On  Patience  coupled  with  such  slow  endeavour, 

That  long-lived  servitude  must  last  for  ever, 

Perish  the  grovelling  few,  who,  prest  between 

Wrongs  and  the  terror  of  redress,  would  wean  5 

Millions  from  glorious  aims.   Our  chains  to  sever 

Let  us  break  forth  in  tempest  now  or  never ! — 

What,  is  there  then  no  space  for  golden  mean 

And  gradual  progress  ? — Twilight  leads  to  day, 

And,  even  within  the  burning  zones  of  earth,  10 

The  hastiest  sunrise  yields  a  temperate  ray ; 

The  softest  breeze  to  fairest  flowers  gives  birth : 

Think  not  that  Prudence  dwells  in  dark  abodes, 

She  scans  the  future  with  the  eye  of  gods. 



[Composed  probably  1837. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

As  leaves  are  to  the  tree  whereon  they  grow 

And  wither,  every  human  generation 

Is  to  the  Being  of  a  mighty  nation, 

Locked  in  our  world's  embrace  through  weal  and  woe ; 

Thought  that  should  teach  the  zealot  to  forego  5 

Rash  schemes,  to  abjure  all  selfish  agitation, 

And  seek  through  noiseless  pains  and  moderation 

The  unblemished  good  they  only  can  bestow. 

Alas !  with  most,  who  weigh  futurity 

Against  time  present,  passion  holds  the  scales:  10 

Hence  equal  ignorance  of  both  prevails, 

And  nations  sink ;  or,  struggling  to  be  free, 

Are  doomed  to  flounder  on,  like  wounded  whales 

Tossed  on  the  bosom  of  a  stormy  sea. 



[Composed  January  or  February,  1845. — Published  1845.] 

YOUNG  ENGLAND — what  is  then  become  of  Old 

Of  dear  Old  England  ?  Think  they  she  is  dead, 

Dead  to  the  very  name  ?  Presumption  fed 

On  empty  air !  That  name  will  keep  its  hold 

In  the  true  filial  bosom's  inmost  fold  5 

For  ever. — The  Spirit  of  Alfred,  at  the  head 

Of  all  who  for  her  rights  watch'd,  toil'd  and  bled, 

Knows  that  this  prophecy  is  not  too  bold. 

What — how !  shall  she  submit  in  will  and  deed 

To  Beardless  Boys — an  imitative  race,  10 

The  servum  pecus  of  a  Gallic  breed  ? 

Dear  Mother !  if  thou  must  thy  steps  retrace, 

Go  where  at  least  meek  Innocency  dwells ; 

Let  Babes  and  Sucklings  be  thy  oracles. 


[Composed  ?. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

FEEL  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken 

Daily  exposed,  woe  that  unshrouded  lies ; 

And  seek  the  Sufferer  in  his  darkest  den, 

Whether  conducted  to  the  spot  by  sighs 

And  moanings,  or  he  dwells  (as  if  the  wren  5 

Taught  him  concealment)  hidden  from  all  eyes 

In  silence  and  the  awful  modesties 

Of  sorrow ; — feel  for  all,  as  brother  Men ! 

Rest  not  in  hope  want's  icy  chain  to  thaw 

By  casual  boons  and  formal  charities  ;  10 

Learn  to  be  Just,  just  through  impartial  law ; 

Far  as  ye  may,  erect  and  equalise ; 

And,  what  ye  cannot  reach  by  statute,  draw 

Each  from  his  fountain  of  self-sacrifice ! 

XIV.  9-10  80  1845:  Feel  for  the  Poor, — but  not  to  still  your  qualms 
By  formal  charity  or  dole  of  alms;     1842 



[Composed  1839-40. — Published  December,  1841  (Quarterly  Beview);  vol. 

of  1842.] 



THIS  Spot — at  once  unfolding  sight  so  fair 

Of  sea  and  land,  with  yon  grey  towers  that  still 

Rise  up  as  if  to  lord  it  over  air — 

Might  soothe  in  human  breasts  the  sense  of  ill, 

Or  charm  it  out  of  memory ;  yea,  might  fill  5 

The  heart  with  joy  and  gratitude  to  God 

For  all  his  bounties  upon  man  bestowed: 

Why  bears  it  then  the  name  of  "Weeping  Hill"  ? 

Thousands,  as  toward  yon  old  Lancastrian  Towers, 

A  prison's  crown,  along  this  way  they  pass'd  10 

For  lingering  durance  or  quick  death  with  shame, 

From  this  bare  eminence  thereon  have  cast 

Their  first  look — blinded  as  tears  fell  in  showers 

Shed  on  their  chains ;  and  hence  that  doleful  name. 


TENDERLY  do  we  feel  by  Nature's  law 

For  worst  offenders :  though  the  heart  will  heave 

With  indignation,  deeply  moved  we  grieve, 

In  afterthought,  for  Him  who  stood  in  awe 

Neither  of  God  nor  man,  and  only  saw,  5 

Lost  wretch,  a  horrible  device  enthroned 

On  proud  temptations,  till  the  victim  groaned 

Under  the  steel  his  hand  had  dared  to  draw. 

But  O,  restrain  compassion,  if  its  course, 

As  oft  befals,  prevent  or  turn  aside  10 

Judgments  and  aims  and  acts  whose  higher  source 

Is  sympathy  with  the  unforewarned,  who  died 

Blameless — with  them  that  shuddered  o'er  his  grave, 

And  all  who  from  the  law  firm  safety  crave. 

I.  10  passed]  past     1842-50  v.  note. 



THE  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die 

Who  had  betrayed  their  country.  The  stern  word 

Afforded  (may  it  through  all  time  afford) 

A  theme  for  praise  and  admiration  high. 

Upon  the  surface  of  humanity 

He  rested  not ;  its  depths  his  mind  explored ; 

He  felt ;  but  his  parental  bosom's  lord 

Was  Duty, — Duty  calmed  his  agony. 

And  some,  we  know,  when  they  by  wilful  act 

A  single  human  life  have  wrongly  taken,  i 

Pass  sentence  on  themselves,  confess  the  fact, 

And  to  atone  for  it,  with  soul  unshaken 

Kneel  at  the  feet  of  Justice,  and,  for  faith 

Broken  with  all  mankind,  solicit  death. 


Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought 

With  such  fell  mastery  that  a  man  may  dare 

By  deeds  the  blackest  purpose  to  lay  bare — 

Is  Death,  for  one  to  that  condition  brought, 

For  him,  or  any  one,  the  thing  that  ought 

To  be  most  dreaded  ?  Lawgivers,  beware, 

Lest,  capital  pains  remitting  till  ye  spare 

The  murderer,  ye,  by  sanction  to  that  thought, 

Seemingly  given,  debase  the  general  mind ; 

Tempt  the  vague  will  tried  standards  to  disown,  i 

Nor  only  palpable  restraints  unbind, 

But  upon  Honour's  head  disturb  the  crown, 

Whose  absolute  rule  permits  not  to  withstand 

In  the  weak  love  of  life  his  least  command, 

III.  2  For  treason  to  MS.  3  through  all  time]  evermore  MS. 

4-6  A  theme  for  general  admiration  high 
As  just ;  the  surface  of  humanity 
Deceived  not  him ;  MS. 
8-14  Was  reason;  she  had  sat  the  cause  to  try 

And  who  could  grieve  if  he  whose  wilful  act 
A  fellow  creature's  life  has  etc. 
(corr.  to  Nor  let  us  shrink  from  praise  of  one  whose  act 

With  fixed  aforethought  malice  life  hath  taken) 
Sitting  himself  in  judgment  of  the  fact 
Should  be  of  all  desire  to  live  forsaken, 
(Pass  sentence  on  himself  with  Soul  unshaken) 
Yea,  as  a  Being  who  has  broken  faith 
With  the  whole  human  race  should  covet  (thirst  for)  death.    MS. 



NOT  to  the  object  specially  designed, 

Howe'er  momentous  in  itself  it  be, 

Good  to  promote  or  curb  depravity, 

Is  the  wise  Legislator's  view  confined. 

His  Spirit,  when  most  severe,  is  oft  most  kind ;  5 

As  all  Authority  in  earth  depends 

On  Love  and  Fear,  their  several  powers  he  blends, 

Copying  with  awe  the  one  Paternal  mind. 

Uncaught  by  processes  in  show  humane, 

He  feels  how  far  the  act  would  derogate  10 

From  even  the  humblest  functions  of  the  State ; 

If  she,  self -shorn  of  Majesty,  ordain 

That  never  more  shall  hang  upon  her  breath 

The  last  alternative  of  Life  or  Death. 


YE  brood  of  conscience — Spectres !  that  frequent 

The  bad  man's  restless  walk,  and  haunt  his  bed — 

Fiends  in  your  aspect,  yet  beneficent 

In  act,  as  hovering  Angels  when  they  spread 

Their  wings  to  guard  the  unconscious  Innocent —  5 

Slow  be  the  Statutes  of  the  land  to  share 

A  laxity  that  could  not  but  impair 

Your  power  to  punish  crime,  and  so  prevent. 

And  ye,  Beliefs !  coiled  serpent-like  about 

The  adage  on  all  tongues,  ' 'Murder  will  out,"  10 

How  shall  your  ancient  warnings  work  for  good 

In  the  full  might  they  hitherto  have  shown, 

If  for  deliberate  shedder  of  man's  blood 

Survive  not  Judgment  that  requires  his  own  ? 


BEFORE  the  world  had  past  her  time  of  youth 

While  polity  and  discipline  were  weak, 

The  precept  eye  for  eye,  and  tooth  for  tooth, 

Came  forth — a  light,  though  but  as  of  daybreak, 

Strong  as  could  then  be  borne.  A  Master  meek  5 

Proscribed  the  spirit  fostered  by  that  rule, 

VII.  2  While  yet  the  arm  of  polity  was  MS.          3  precept]  maxim    MS. 
4-6  Came  forth  a  glimmering  (feeble)  and  imperfect  streak 

The  dawn  of  Justice.  An  Instructor  meek 

And  holy  superseded  the  first  rule ; 
corr.  to  Brought  to  mankind  a  better,  purer 


Patience  his  law,  long-suffering  his  school, 

And  love  the  end,  which  all  through  peace  must  seek. 

But  lamentably  do  they  err  who  strain 

His  mandates,  given  rash  impulse  to  controul  10 

And  keep  vindictive  thirstings  from  the  soul, 

So  far  that,  if  consistent  in  their  scheme, 

They  must  forbid  the  State  to  inflict  a  pain, 

Making  of  social  order  a  mere  dream. 


FIT  retribution,  by  the  moral  code 

Determined,  lies  beyond  the  State's  embrace, 

Yet,  as  she  may,  for  each  peculiar  case 

She  plants  well-measured  terrors  in  the  road 

Of  wrongful  acts.   Downward  it  is  and  broad,  5 

And,  the  main  fear  once  doomed  to  banishment, 

Far  oftener  then,  bad  ushering  worse  event, 

Blood  would  be  spilt  that  in  his  dark  abode 

Crime  might  lie  better  hid.   And,  should  the  change 

Take  from  the  horror  due  to  a  foul  deed,  10 

Pursuit  and  evidence  so  far  must  fail, 

And,  guilt  escaping,  passion  then  might  plead 

In  angry  spirits  for  her  old  free  range, 

And  the  "wild  justice  of  revenge"  prevail. 

VII.  8-14  But  these  Interpreters  have  yet  to  seek 

The  Spirit,  who,  to  the  letter  all  too  strict, 
Would  place  his  blessed  rules  in  domination 
Not  only,  as  designed,  o'er  bursts  of  passion, 
And  pains  which  passion's  vengeance  longs  to  inflict, 
But  o'er  the  State's  forbearance  stretched  to  extremes 
Which  for  her  stedfast  reason  are  mere  dreams.   MS.l 
9-14  .  .  .  strain 

His  mandates  given  to  temper  and  control 
Private  resentment,  and  to  calm  the  soul 
Under  all  wrong,  strain  them  to  that  extreme 
That  would  forbid  the  State  to  inflict  a  pain, 
Would  make  of  social  order  a  mere  dream.  MS. 2 

VIII.  1  by]  to     MS. 

2-9  Adjusted,  ne'er  was  wisely  thought  the  aim 

Of  penal  law ;  her  humbler  safer  claim 

Is  to  plant  obvious  terrors  in  the  road 

That  points  to  guilty  deeds.   But  is  it  trod  ? 

If  fear  were  none  of  capital  punishment 

The  robber  might  give  way  to  worse  intent 

And  blood  be  shed    MS. 

10  Take  from  .  .  .  foul]  Abate  .  .  .  fatal  MS.  11  so  far  must]  must 

oftener    MS.  13  In  angry]  With  untaught  MS. 



THOUGH  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter 

Is  one  great  aim  of  penalty,  extend 

Thy  mental  vision  further  and  ascend 

Far  higher,  else  full  surely  shalt  thou  err. 

What  is  a  State  ?  The  wise  behold  in  her  5 

A  creature  born  of  time,  that  keeps  one  eye 

Fixed  on  the  statutes  of  Eternity, 

To  which  her  judgments  reverently  defer. 

Speaking  through  Law's  dispassionate  voice  the  State 

Endues  her  conscience  with  external  life  10 

And  being,  to  preclude  or  quell  the  strife 

Of  individual  will,  to  elevate 

The  grovelling  mind,  the  erring  to  recal, 

And  fortify  the  moral  sense  of  all. 


OUR  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrine 

Of  an  immortal  spirit,  is  a  gift 

So  sacred,  so  informed  with  light  divine, 

That  no  tribunal,  though  most  wise  to  sift 

Deed  and  intent,  should  turn  the  Being  adrift  5 

Into  that  world  where  penitential  tear 

May  not  avail,  nor  prayer  have  for  God's  ear 

A  voice — that  world  whose  veil  no  hand  can  lift 

For  earthly  sight.   "Eternity  and  Time," 

They  urge,  "have  interwoven  claims  and  rights  10 

Not  to  be  jeopardised  through  foulest  crime: 

The  sentence  rule  by  mercy's  heaven-born  lights." 

Even  so ;  but  measuring  not  by  finite  sense 

Infinite  Power,  perfect  Intelligence. 


AH,  think  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide 

Locked  in  a  dungeon  needs  must  eat  the  heart 

Out  of  his  own  humanity,  and  part 

With  every  hope  that  mutual  cares  provide ; 

And,  should  a  less  unnatural  doom  confide  5 

In  life-long  exile  on  a  savage  coast, 

Soon  the  relapsing  penitent  may  toast 

IX.  4  thou  shalt     1842 


Of  yet  more  heinous  guilt,  with  fiercer  pride. 

Hence  thoughtful  Mercy,  Mercy  sage  and  pure, 

Sanctions  the  forfeiture  that  Law  demands,  10 

Leaving  the  final  issue  in  His  hands 

Whose  goodness  knows  no  change,  whose  love  is  sure, 

Who  sees,  foresees ;  who  cannot  judge  amiss, 

And  wafts  at  will  the  contrite  soul  to  bliss. 


SEE  the  Condemned  alone  within  his  cell 
And  prostrate  at  some  moment  when  remorse 
Stings  to  the  quick,  and,  with  resistless  force, 
Assaults  the  pride  she  strove  in  vain  to  quell. 
Then  mark  him,  him  who  could  so  long  rebel,  5 

The  crime  confessed,  a  kneeling  Penitent 
Before  the  Altar,  where  the  Sacrament 
Softens  his  heart,  till  from  his  eyes  outwell 
Tears  of  salvation.  Welcome  death !  while  Heaven 
>  Does  in  this  change  exceedingly  rejoice ;  10 

While  yet  the  solemn  heed  the  State  hath  given 
Helps  him  to  meet  the  last  Tribunal's  voice 
In  faith,  which  fresh  offences,  were  he  cast 
On  old  temptations,  might  for  ever  blast. 



YES,  though  He  well  may  tremble  at  the  sound 

Of  his  own  voice,  who  from  the  judgment-seat 

Sends  the  pale  Convict  to  his  last  retreat 

In  death ;  though  Listeners  shudder  all  around, 

They  know  the  dread  requital's  source  profound ;  5 

Nor  is,  they  feel,  its  wisdom  obsolete — 

(Would  that  it  were!)  the  sacrifice  unmeet 

For  Christian  Faith.   But  hopeful  signs  abound ; 

The  social  rights  of  man  breathe  purer  air ; 

XII.  1  alone  within]  recumbent  in     MS.         2  And]  Or    MS.         3  Hath 
stung  him,  and,  with  more  prevailing  force    MS.         4  strove  in  vain]  failed 
at  first  MS. 
5-7  ,  .  .  kneeling  when  the  Chapel-bell 

Hath  called  to  prayer,  submissive,  penitent ; 

Or  at  MS. 


Religion  deepens  her  preventive  care ;  10 

Then,  moved  by  needless  fear  of  past  abuse, 
Strike  not  from  Law's  firm  hand  that  awful  rod, 
But  leave  it  thence  to  drop  for  lack  of  use : 
Oh,  speed  the  blessed  hour,  Almighty  God ! 



THE  formal  World  relaxes  her  cold  chain 

For  One  who  speaks  in  numbers ;  ampler  scope 

His  utterance  finds ;  and,  conscious  of  the  gain, 

Imagination  works  with  bolder  hope 

The  cause  of  grateful  reason  to  sustain ;  5 

And,  serving  Truth,  the  heart  more  strongly  beats 

Against  all  barriers  which  his  labour  meets 

In  lofty  place,  or  humble  Life's  domain. 

Enough ; — before  us  lay  a  painful  road, 

And  guidance  have  I  sought  in  duteous  love  10 

From  Wisdom's  heavenly  Father.   Hence  hath  flowed 

Patience,  with  trust  that,  whatsoe'er  the  way 

Each  takes  in  this  high  matter,  all  may  move 

Cheered  with  the  prospect  of  a  brighter  day. 

XIV.  9  No  more;  a  painful  path  before  me  lay  MS. 
11-12  From  Him  who  governs,  earthly  thrones  above; 
And  with  assured  belief,  whate'er   MS. 




From  the  South-west  Coast  of  Cumberland. — 1811. 
[Composed  August,  1811. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

FAR  from  our  home  by  Grasmere's  quiet  Lake, 

From  the  Vale's  peace  which  all  her  fields  partake, 

Here  on  the  bleakest  point  of  Cumbria's  shore 

We  sojourn  stunned  by  Ocean's  ceaseless  roar; 

While,  day  by  day,  grim  neighbour !  huge  Black  Comb         5 

Frowns  deepening  visibly  his  native  gloom, 

Unless,  perchance  rejecting  in  despite 

What  on  the  Plain  we  have  of  warmth  and  light, 

In  his  own  storms  he  hides  himself  from  sight. 

Rough  is  the  time ;  and  thoughts,  that  would  be  free  10 

From  heaviness,  oft  fly,  dear  Friend,  to  thee ; 

Turn  from  a  spot  where  neither  sheltered  road 

Nor  hedge-row  screen  invites  my  steps  abroad ; 

Where  one  poor  Plane-tree,  having  as  it  might 

Attained  a  stature  twice  a  tall  man's  height,  15 

Hopeless  of  further  growth,  and  brown  and  sere 

Through  half  the  summer,  stands  with  top  cut  sheer, 

Like  an  unshifting  weathercock  which  proves 

How  cold  the  quarter  that  the  wind  best  loves, 

Or  like  a  Centinel  that,  evermore  20 

Darkening  the  window,  ill  defends  the  door 

I,  1-5  Far  from  the  stillness  of  our  Grasmere  lake, 

Our  nest  as  cozy  as  a  Bird  could  make, 

(Far  from  our  home  by  Grasmere's  lake  serene 

Her  Vale  profound  and  mountains  ever  green) 

My  time  is  spent,  where  thoughts  that  would  be  free 

From  heaviness,  turn  oft,  dear  Friend,  to  Thee, 

In  constant  hearing  of  loud  Ocean's  roar, 

Where  daily  on  a  bleak  and  lonesome  shore 

Even  at  this  summer  season  huge  Black  Comb   MSS. 

10-13  Here  are  we,  fixed,  where  neither  sheltered  road  Nor  MS.  1  20 

like  a    1845:  stedfast   MS.,  1842  21  Darkening  .  .  .  ill]  Darkens  .  .  . 

not  MSS. 


Of  this  unfinished  house — a  Portress  bare, 

Where  strength  has  been  the  Builder's  only  care ; 

Whose  rugged  walls  may  still  for  years  demand 

The  final  polish  of  the  Plasterer's  hand.  25 

— This  Dwelling's  Inmate  more  than  three  weeks'  space 

And  oft  a  Prisoner  in  the  cheerless  place, 

I — of  whose  touch  the  fiddle  would  complain, 

Whose  breath  would  labour  at  the  flute  in  vain, 

In  music  all  unversed,  nor  blessed  with  skill  3° 

A  bridge  to  copy,  or  to  paint  a  mill, 

Tired  of  my  books,  a  scanty  company ! 

And  tired  of  listening  to  the  boisterous  sea — 

Pace  between  door  and  window  muttering  rhyme, 

An  old  resource  to  cheat  a  froward  time !  35 

Though  these  dull  hours  (mine  is  it,  or  their  shame  ?) 

Would  tempt  me  to  renounce  that  humble  aim. 

— But  if  there  be  a  Muse  who,  free  to  take 

Her  seat  upon  Olympus,  doth  forsake 

Those  heights  (like  Phoebus  when  his  golden  locks  40 

He  veiled,  attendant  on  Thessalian  flocks) 

And,  in  disguise,  a  Milkmaid  with  her  pail 

Trips  down  the  pathways  of  some  winding  dale ; 

Or,  like  a  Mermaid,  warbles  on  the  shores 

To  fishers  mending  nets  beside  their  doors  ;  45 

Or,  Pilgrim-like,  on  forest  moss  reclined, 

Gives  plaintive  ditties  to  the  heedless  wind, 

Or  listens  to  its  play  among  the  boughs 

Above  her  head  and  so  forgets  her  vows — 

If  such  a  Visitant  of  Earth  there  be  50 

And  she  would  deign  this  day  to  smile  on  me 

And  aid  my  verse,  content  with  local  bounds 

Of  natural  beauty  and  life's  daily  rounds, 

Thoughts,  chances,  sights,  or  doings,  which  we  tell 

Without  reserve  to  those  whom  we  love  well —  55 

28  fiddle]  viol  MS.  30  nor  blessed  with]  and  void  of    MS.  34 

muttering]  murmuring  MS. 

36—7  And  it  would  well  content  me  to  disclaim 

In  these  dull  hours  a  more  ambitious  aim  MS.  1 
39  on  heights  Olympian  MS. 

46-7  Or  like  a  tired  Way-fewer  faint  in  mind  Gives  plaintive  Ballads  MS.  1 
47  ditties]  Ave  Marias  MS.  2.  52-3  with  narrow  bounds,  Life's  beaten 
road  and  Nature's  MSS. 


Then  haply,  Beaumont !  words  in  current  clear 
Will  flow,  and  on  a  welcome  page  appear 
Duly  before  thy  sight,  unless  they  perish  here. 

What  shall  I  treat  of?  News  from  Mona's  Isle  ? 
Such  have  we,  but  unvaried  in  its  style ;  60 

No  tales  of  Runagates  fresh  landed,  whence 
And  wherefore  fugitive  or  on  what  pretence ; 
Of  feasts,  or  scandal,  eddying  like  the  wind 
Most  restlessly  alive  when  most  confined. 
Ask  not  of  me,  whose  tongue  can  best  appease  65 

The  mighty  tumults  of  the  HOUSE  OF  KEYS  ; 
The  last  year's  cup  whose  Ram  or  Heifer  gained, 
What  slopes  are  planted,  or  what  mosses  drained : 
An  eye  of  fancy  only  can  I  cast 

On  that  proud  pageant  now  at  hand  or  past,  70 

When  full  five  hundred  boats  in  trim  array, 
With  nets  and  sails  outspread  and  streamers  gay, 
And  chanted  hymns  and  stiller  voice  of  prayer, 
For  the  old  Manx-harvest  to  the  Deep  repair, 
Soon  as  the  herring-shoals  at  distance  shine  75 

Like  beds  of  moonlight  shifting  on  the  brine. 

Mona  from  our  Abode  is  daily  seen, 
But  with  a  wilderness  of  waves  between ; 
And  by  conjecture  only  can  we  speak 

Of  aught  transacted  there  in  bay  or  creek  ;  80 

No  tidings  reach  us  thence  from  town  or  field, 
Only  faint  news  her  mountain-sunbeams  yield, 
And  some  we  gather  from  the  misty  air, 
And  some  the  hovering  clouds,  our  telegraph,  declare. 
But  these  poetic  mysteries  I  withhold ;  85 

For  Fancy  hath  her  fits  both  hot  and  cold, 
And  should  the  colder  fit  with  You  be  on 
When  You  might  read,  my  credit  would  be  gone. 

56-8  Then  haply  Beaumont,  for  my  pen  is  near, 
The  unlaboured  lines  to  your  indulgent  ear 
May  be  transmitted,  else  will  perish  here.  MS.  1 

57-8  May  flow,  unlaboured  lines  that  from  thy  ear 
Audience  will  crave  unless  they  MS.  2 

77-9  our  .  .  .  we]  my  ...  I  and  so  in  81,  83,  84  MSS. 


Let  more  substantial  themes  the  pen  engage, 
And  nearer  interests  culled  from  the  opening  stage  90 

Of  our  migration. — Ere  the  welcome  dawn 
Had  from  the  east  her  silver  star  withdrawn, 
The  Wain  stood  ready,  at  our  Cottage-door, 
Thoughtfully  freighted  with  a  various  store ; 
And  long  or  ere  the  uprising  of  the  Sun  95 

O'er  dew-damped  dust  our  journey  was  begun, 
A  needful  journey,  under  favouring  skies, 
Through  peopled  Vates ;  yet  something  in  the  guise 
Of  those  old  Patriarchs  when  from  well  to  well 
They  roamed  through  Wastes  where  now  the  tented  Arabs  dwell. 

Say  first,  to  whom  did  we  the  charge  confide,  101 

Who  promptly  undertook  the  Wain  to  guide 
Up  many  a  sharply- twining  road  and  down, 
And  over  many  a  wide  hill's  craggy  crown, 
Through  the  quick  turns  of  many  a  hollow  nook,  105 

And  the  rough  bed  of  many  an  unbridged  brook  ? 
A  blooming  Lass — who  in  her  better  hand 
Bore  a  light  switch,  her  sceptre  of  command 
When,  yet  a  slender  Girl,  she  often  led, 

Skilful  and  bold,  the  horse  and  burthened  sled1  no 

From  the  peat-yielding  Moss  on  Gowdar's  head. 
What  could  go  wrong  with  such  a  Charioteer 
For  goods  and  chattels,  or  those  Infants  dear, 
A  Pair  who  smilingly  sat  side  by  side, 

Our  hope  confirming  that  the  salt-sea  tide,  115 

Whose  free  embraces  we  were  bound  to  seek, 
Would  their  lost  strength  restore  and  freshen  the  pale  cheek  ? 
Such  hope  did  either  Parent  entertain 
Pacing  behind  along  the  silent  lane. 

Blithe  hopes  and  happy  musings  soon  took  flight,  120 

For  lo !  an  uncouth  melancholy  sight — 
On  a  green  bank  a  creature  stood  forlorn 
1  A  local  word  for  sledge. 

89  the  pen]  our  care  MSS. 

90-1  And  humbler  business  occupy  the  stage. 

First  for  our  journey  hither.   Ere  the  dawn  MS.  1 

95  or  ere]  before  MSS.  96  journey]  travel  MSS.  97  favouring] 

summer  MS.  1 

113/14  Escaped  not  long  from  malady  severe,     MSS.  122  What  see 

we  there  ?  A  creature  stood  forlorn  MS.  2 
917.1 7  IV  L 


Just  half  protruded  to  the  light  of  morn, 

Its  hinder  part  concealed  by  hedge-row  thorn. 

The  Figure  called  to  mind  a  beast  of  prey  125 

Stript  of  its  frightful  powers  by  slow  decay, 

And,  though  no  longer  upon  rapine  bent, 

Dim  memory  keeping  of  its  old  intent. 

We  started,  looked  again  with  anxious  eyes, 

And  in  that  griesly  object  recognise  130 

The  Curate's  Dog — his  long- tried  friend,  for  they, 

As  well  we  knew,  together  had  grown  grey. 

The  Master  died,  his  drooping  servant's  grief 

Found  at  the  Widow's  feet  some  sad  relief; 

Yet  still  he  lived  in  pining  discontent,  135 

Sadness  which  no  indulgence  could  prevent ; 

Hence  whole  day  wanderings,  broken  nightly  sleeps 

And  lonesome  watch  that  out  of  doors  he  keeps ; 

Not  oftentimes,  I  trust,  as  we,  poor  brute ! 

Espied  him  on  his  legs  sustained,  blank,  mute,  140 

And  of  all  visible  motion  destitute, 

So  that  the  very  heaving  of  his  breath 

Seemed  stopt,  though  by  some  other  power  than  death. 

Long  as  we  gazed  upon  the  form  and  face, 

A  mild  domestic  pity  kept  its  place,  145 

Unscared  by  thronging  fancies  of  strange  hue 

That  haunted  us  in  spite  of  what  we  knew. 

Even  now  I  sometimes  think  of  him  as  lost 

129  anxious  eyes]  blank  surprize  MS. 
133-5   so  1845. 

[The  Master  died,  such  comfort  as  remained 

To  the  poor  brute  he  from  the  Widow  gained  MS:  1842  as  text] 

Until  the  Vale  she  quitted,  [Now  she  had  left  the  valley  MS.]  and 

their  door 

Was  closed ;  to  whicii  she  will  return  no  more ; 
But  first  old  Faithful  [Trusty     MS.]  to  a  neighbour's  care 
Was  given  in  charge;  [Had  been  transferred     MS.]  nor  lacked  he 

dainty  fare, 

And  in  the  chimney  nook  was  free  to  lie 
And  doze,  or,  if  his  hour  were  come,  to  die 
Yet  [And    MS.]  still  he  lived  MS.  1842 
142-3  So  that  .  .  .  Seemed]  As  if  ...  Were  MS. 
145-50  Our  first  unquiet  pity  held  its  plaice, 

Strange  images  we  saw,  and  fancy  drew 
As  strange  to  haunt  us,  spite  of  what  we  knew. 
Imbecile  seemed  he,  or  by  madness  crossed 
Or  stiffened  and  benumbed  by  ruthless  frost, 
(He  seemed  by  inoffensive  madness  crossed 


In  second-sight  appearances,  or  crost 

By  spectral  shapes  of  guilt,  or  to  the  ground,  150 

On  which  he  stood,  by  spells  unnatural  bound, 

Like  a  gaunt  shaggy  Porter  forced  to  wait 

In  days  of  old  romance  at  Archimago's  gate. 

Advancing  Summer,  Nature's  law  fulfilled, 
The  choristers  in  every  grove  had  stilled ;  155 

But  we,  we  lacked  not  music  of  our  own, 
For  lightsome  Fanny  had  thus  early  thrown, 
Mid  the  gay  prattle  of  those  infant  tongues, 
Some  notes  prelusive,  from  the  round  of  songs 
With  which,  more  zealous  than  the  liveliest  bird  160 

That  in  wild  Arden's  brakes  was  ever  heard, 
Her  work  and  her  work's  partners  she  can  cheer, 
The  whole  day  long,  and  all  days  of  the  year. 

Thus  gladdened  from  our  own  dear  Vale  we  pass 
And  soon  approach  Diana's  Looking-glass!  165 

To  Loughrigg-tarn,  round  clear  and  bright  as  heaven, 
Such  name  Italian  fancy  would  have  given, 
Ere  on  its  banks  the  few  grey  cabins  rose 
That  yet  disturb  not  its  concealed  repose 
More  than  the  feeblest  wind  that  idly  blows.  170 

Ah,  Beaumont!  when  an  opening  in  the  road 
Stopped  me  at  once  by  charm  of  what  it  showed, 
The  encircling  region  vividly  exprest 
Within  the  mirror's  depth,  a  world  at  rest — 
Sky  streaked  with  purple,  grove  and  craggy  bield,1  175 

And  the  smooth  green  of  many  a  pendent  field, 
And,  quieted  and  soothed,  a  torrent  small, 
A  little  daring  would-be  waterfall. 

1  A  word  common  in  the  country,  signifying  shelter,  as  in  Scotland. 

Or  in  some  second-sight  appearance,  lost) 

By  helpless  hunger  crazed,  or  to  the  ground  MS.  1 

165  every]  copse  and  MS.  1  158  infant]  busy  MSS.  161  wild] 
wide  MSS. 

164-5  Thus  gladdened  soon  we  saw,  and  could  not  pass 
Without  a  pause     MSS. 

166  To  Loughrigg's  pool  MS.  1  169  disturb]  molest     MS.  1 
170  feeblest]  ruffling  MSS. 

173-5  And  I  beheld,  within  its  glassy  breast 

The  encircling  landscape,  lodged  in  perfect  rest, 

Woods  intermingling  with  a  rocky  bield  MSS. 
177  And  hurrying  down  the  cleft  a  streamlet  small  MS. 


One  chimney  smoking  and  its  azure  wreath, 

Associate  all  in  the  calm  Pool  beneath,  180 

With  here  and  there  a  faint  imperfect  gleam 

Of  water-lilies  veiled  in  misty  steam — 

What  wonder  at  this  hour  of  stillness  deep, 

A  shadowy  link  'tween  wakefulness  and  sleep, 

When  Nature's  self,  amid  such  blending,  seems  185 

To  render  visible  her  own  soft  dreams, 

If,  mixed  with  what  appeared  of  rock,  lawn,  wood, 

Fondly  embosomed  in  the  tranquil  flood, 

A  glimpse  I  caught  of  that  Abode,  by  Thee 

Designed  to  rise  in  humble  privacy,  190 

A  lowly  Dwelling,  here  to  be  outspread, 

Like  a  small  Hamlet,  with  its  bashful  head 

Half  hid  in  native  trees.   Alas  'tis  not, 

Nor  ever  was ;  I  sighed,  and  left  the  spot 

Unconscious  of  its  own  untoward  lot,  195 

And  thought  in  silence,  with  regret  too  keen, 

Of  unexperienced  joys  that  might  have  been  ; 

Of  neighbourhood  and  intermingling  arts, 

And  golden  summer  days  uniting  cheerful  hearts. 

But  time,  irrevocable  time,  is  flown,  200 

And  let  us  utter  thanks  for  blessings  sown 

And  reaped — what  hath  been,  and  what  is,  our  own. 

Not  far  we  travelled  ere  a  shout  of  glee, 
Startling  us  all,  dispersed  my  reverie  ; 

Such  shout  as  many  a  sportive  echo  meeting  205 

Oft-times  from  Alpine  chalets  sends  a  greeting. 
Whence  the  blithe  hail  ?  behold  a  Peasant  stand 
On  high,  a  kerchief  waving  in  her  hand ! 
Not  unexpectant  that  by  early  day 

Our  little  Band  would  thrid  this  mountain  way,  210 

Before  her  cottage  on  the  bright  hill  side 
She  hath  advanced  with  hope  to  be  descried. 
Bight  gladly  answering  signals  we  displayed, 
Moving  along  a  tract  of  morning  shade, 
And  vocal  wishes  sent  of  like  good  will  215 

To  our  kind  Friend  high  on  the  sunny  hill — 

180  Together  imaged  in  the  pool  beneath  MS  1.         185-6  ...  these  watery 
gleams  Is  rendering  visible  MS.  188  Fondly  embosomed]  Truly 

repeated    MS*  1        195  Unconscious  of  ]  Repining  at  MS.        199  cheerful] 
peaceful  corr.  to  tender  MS.  1 


Luminous  region,  fair  as  if  the  prime 

Were  tempting  all  astir  to  look  aloft  or  climb ; 

Only  the  centre  of  the  shining  cot 

With  door  left  open  makes  a  gloomy  spot,  220 

Emblem  of  those  dark  corners  sometimes  found 

Within  the  happiest  breast  on  earthly  ground. 

Rich  prospect  left  behind  of  stream  and  vale, 
And  mountain- tops,  a  barren  ridge  we  scale ; 
Descend  and  reach,  in  Yewdale's  depths,  a  plain  225 

With  haycocks  studded,  striped  with  yellowing  grain — 
An  area  level  as  a  Lake  and  spread 
Under  a  rock  too  steep  for  man  to  tread, 
Where  sheltered  from  the  north  and  bleak  north-west 
Aloft  the  Raven  hangs  a  visible  nest,  230 

Fearless  of  all  assaults  that  wrould  her  brood  molest. 
Hot  sunbeams  fill  the  steaming  vale ;  but  hark, 
At  our  approach,  a  jealous  watch-dog's  bark, 
Noise  that  brings  forth  no  liveried  Page  of  state, 
But  the  whole  household,  that  our  coming  wait.  235 

With  Young  and  Old  warm  greetings  we  exchange, 
And  jocund  smiles,  and  toward  the  lowly  Grange 
Press  forward  by  the  teasing  dogs  unscared. 
Entering,  we  find  the  morning  meal  prepared : 
So  down  we  sit,  though  not  till  each  had  cast  240 

Pleased  looks  around  the  delicate  repast — 
Rich  cream,  and  snow-white  eggs  fresh  from  the  nest, 
With  amber  honey  from  the  mountain's  breast ; 
Strawberries  from  lane  or  woodland,  offering  wild 
Of  children's  industry,  in  hillocks  piled,  245 

Cakes  for  the  nonce,  and  butter  fit  to  lie 
Upon  a  lordly  dish ;  frank  hospitality 

217  Clear,  luminous  as  if  the  conscious  prime    MS.  218  look  aloft] 

gaze  MS. 

223—4  Two  vallies  crossed  that  from  a  spacious  vale 

Branch  off,  a  rough  and  heathy  ridge  etc.  MS.  1 

225  Descend  and  soon  have  reached  a  fertile  plain  MS.  1         228  Under  a 
huge  black  steep  that  knows  not  human  tread  MS.  1 
235-9  But  hearty  friends  that  on  our  coming  wait 

With  jocund  smiles,  warm  greetings  we  exchange 

And  soon  the  threshold  of  a  lonely  grange 

We  enter  etc. 

And  on  the  table  find  the  morning  meal  prepared.  MS.  1 
246  for  the  nonce      1842 


Where  simple  art  with  bounteous  nature  vied, 
And  cottage  comfort  shunned  not  seemly  pride. 

Kind  Hostess !  Handmaid  also  of  the  feast,  250 

If  thou  be  lovelier  than  the  kindling  East, 
Words  by  thy  presence  unrestrained  may  speak 
Of  a  perpetual  dawn  from  brow  and  cheek 
Instinct  with  light  whose  sweetest  promise  lies, 
Never  retiring,  in  thy  large  dark  eyes,  255 

Dark  but  to  every  gentle  feeling  true, 
As  if  their  lustre  flowed  from  ether's  purest  blue. 

Let  me  not  ask  what  tears  may  have  been  wept 
By  those  bright  eyes,  what  weary  vigils  kept, 
Beside  that  hearth  what  sighs  may  have  been  heaved  260 

For  wounds  inflicted,  nor  what  toil  relieved 
By  fortitude  and  patience,  and  the  grace 
Of  heaven  in  pity  visiting  the  place. 
Not  unadvisedly  those  secret  springs 

I  leave  unsearched :  enough  that  memory  clings,  265 

Here  as  elsewhere,  to  notices  that  make 
Their  own  significance  for  hearts  awake, 
To  rural  incidents,  whose  genial  powers 
Filled  with  delight  three  summer  morning  hours. 

More  could  my  pen  report  of  grave  or  gay  270 

That  through  our  gipsy  travel  cheered  the  way ; 
But,  bursting  forth  above  the  waves,  the  Sun 
Laughs  at  my  pains,  and  seems  to  say,  "Be  done." 
Yet,  Beaumont,  thou  wilt  not,  I  trust,  reprove 
This  humble  offering  made  by  Truth  to  Love,  275 

Nor  chide  the  Muse  that  stooped  to  break  a  spell 
Which  might  have  else  been  on  me  yet : — 


252—4  The  admiring  poet  without  blame  may  speak 

Of  thy  perpetual  dawn — of  brow  and  cheek 

Blest  with  a  light  (And  that  fair  light)  that  in  contentment  lies  MS. 
257  ether's  purest]  heaven's  etherial  MS.  270  More]  Much  MS.  1 

272  bursting]  breaking  MS.  1  273  Chides  me  with  smiles  that  seem 

etc.  MS.  1 
274-5  ...  I  trust  wilt  ne'er  refuse 

Kindly  to  take  this  offering  from  a  Muse 

Who  stooped  to  aid  me,  studious  of  an  end 

My  spirits  else  had  missed;  farewell,  dear  Friend!  MS.  1 



[Composed  1841.— Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

SOON  did  the  Almighty  Giver  of  all  rest 

Take  those  dear  young  Ones  to  a  fearless  nest ; 

And  in  Death's  arms  has  long  reposed  the  Friend 

For  whom  this  simple  Register  was  penned. 

Thanks  to  the  moth  that  spared  it  for  our  eyes ;  5 

And  Strangers  even  the  slighted  Scroll  may  prize, 

Moved  by  the  touch  of  kindred  sympathies. 

For — save  the  calm,  repentance  sheds  o'er  strife 

Raised  by  remembrances  of  misused  life, 

The  light  from  past  endeavours  purely  willed  10 

And  by  Heaven's  favour  happily  fulfilled ; 

Save  hope  that  we,  yet  bound  to  Earth,  may  share 

The  joys  of  the  Departed — what  so  fair 

As  blameless  pleasure,  not  without  some  tears, 

Reviewed  through  Love's  transparent  veil  of  years  ?        15 

Note. — LOUGHKIGO  TARN,  alluded  to  in  the  foregoing  Epistle,  resembles, 
though  much  smaller  in  compass,  the  Lake  Nemi,  or  Speculum  Diance  as  it 
is  often  called,  riot  only  in  its  clear  waters  and  circular  form,  and  the 
beauty  immediately  surrounding  it,  but  also  as  being  overlooked  by  the 
eminence  of  Langdale  Pikes  as  Lake  Nemi  is  by  that  of  Monte  Calvo.  Since 
this  Epistle  was  written  Loughrigg  Tarn  has  lost  much  of  its  beauty  by  the 
felling  of  many  natural  clumps  of  wood,  relics  of  the  old  forest,  particularly 
upon  the  farm  called  "The  Oaks",  from  the  abundance  of  that  tree  which 
grew  there. 

It  is  to  be  regretted,  upon  public  grounds,  that  Sir  George  Beaumont  did 
not  carry  into  effect  his  intention  of  constructing  here  a  Summer  Retreat 
in  the  style  I  have  described ;  as  his  taste  would  have  set  an  example  how 
buildings,  with  all  the  accommodations  modern  society  requires,  might  be 
introduced  even  into  the  most  secluded  parts  of  this  country  without 
injuring  their  native  character.  The  design  was  not  abandoned  from  failure 
of  inclination  on  his  part,  but  in  consequence  of  local  untowardness  which 
need  not  be  particularised. 



[Composed  November,  1829.— Published  1835.] 

THE  soaring  lark  is  blest  as  proud 
When  at  heaven's  gate  she  sings ; 

The  roving  bee  proclaims  aloud 
Her  flight  by  vocal  wings ; 

7  For  its  own  sake,  and  MS. 


While  Ye,  in  lasting  durance  pent,  5 

Your  silent  lives  employ 
For  something  more  than  dull  content, 

Though  haply  less  than  joy. 

Yet  might  your  glassy  prison  seem 

A  place  where  joy  is  known,  10 

Where  golden  flash  and  silver  gleam 

Have  meanings  of  their  own ; 
While,  high  and  low,  and  all  about, 

Your  motions,  glittering  Elves ! 
Ye  weave — no  danger  from  without,  15 

And  peace  among  yourselves. 

Type  of  a  sunny  human  breast 

Is  your  transparent  cell ; 
Where  Fear  is  but  a  transient  guest, 

No  sullen  Humours  dwell ;  20 

Where,  sensitive  of  every  ray 

That  smites  this  tiny  sea, 
Your  scaly  panoplies  repay 

The  loan  with  usury. 

How  beautiful ! — Yet  none  knows  why  25 

This  ever-graceful  change, 
Renewed — renewed  incessantly — 

Within  your  quiet  range. 
Is  it  that  ye  with  conscious  skill 

For  mutual  pleasure  glide  ;  30 

And  sometimes,  not  without  your  will, 

Are  dwarfed,  or  magnified  ? 

Fays,  Genii  qjf  gigantic  size ! 

And  now,  in  twilight  dim, 
Clustering  like  constellated  eyes  35 

In  wings  of  Cherubim, 
When  the  fierce  orbs  abate  their  glare ; — 

Whatever  your  forms  express, 
Whate'er  ye  seem,  whate'er  ye  are — 

All  leads  to  gentleness.  40 

II.  19  transient]  lingering    MS.  22  this]  your    MS.  26  ever- 

varying  MS.  34  in  twilight]  when  air  is  MS.  35  Lustrous  as 

regal  gems,  or  eyes  MS.  37  so  1837:  When  they  abate  their  fiery 

glare;     MS.,  1835 


Cold  though  your  nature  be,  'tis  pure ; 

Your  birthright  is  a  fence 
From  all  that  haughtier  kinds  endure 

Through  tyranny  of  sense. 
Ah !  not  alone  by  colours  bright  45 

Are  Ye  to  heaven  allied, 
When,  like  essential  Forms  of  light, 

Ye  mingle,  or  divide. 

For  day-dreams  soft  as  e'er  beguiled 

Day-thoughts  while  limbs  repose ;  50 

For  moonlight  fascinations  mild, 

Your  gift,  ere  shutters  close — 
Accept,  mute  Captives !  thanks  and  praise ; 

And  may  this  tribute  prove 
That  gentle  admirations  raise  55 

Delight  resembling  love. 



Addressed  to  a  friend;  the  gold  and  silver  fishes  having  been  removed  to 
a  pool  in  the  pleasure-ground  of  Rydal  Mount. 

4 'The  liberty  of  a  people  consists  in  being  governed  by  laws  which  they  have 
made  for  themselves,  under  whatever  form  it  be  of  government.  The 
liberty  of  a  private  man,  in  being  master  of  his  own  time  and  actions, 
as  far  as  may  consist  with  the  laws  of  God  and  of  his  country.  Of  this 
latter  we  are  here  to  discourse." — COWLEY. 

[Composed  1829.— Published  1836.] 

THOSE  breathing  Tokens  of  your  kind  regard, 

(Suspect  not,  Anna,  that  their  fate  is  hard ; 

Not  soon  does  aught  to  which  mild  fancies  cling 

In  lonely  spots,  become  a  slighted  thing ;) 

Those  silent  Inmates  now  no  longer  share,  5 

Nor  do  they  need,  our  hospitable  care, 

Removed  in  kindness  from  their  glassy  Cell 

To  the  fresh  waters  of  a  living  Well — 

41-8  not  in  MS.  53  Accept]  Receive  MS.        mute]  meek  MS. 


An ,  elfin  pool  so  sheltered  that  its  rest 

No  winds  disturb ;  the  mirror  of  whose  breast  10 

Is  smooth  as  clear,  save  where  with  dimples  small 

A  fly  may  settle,  or  a  blossom  fall. 

— There  swims,  of  blazing  sun  and  beating  shower 

Fearless  (but  how  obscured!)  the  golden  Power, 

That  from  his  bauble  prison  used  to  cast  15 

Gleams  by  the  richest  jewel  unsurpast ; 

And  near  him,  darkling  like  a  sullen  Gnome, 

The  silver  Tenant  of  the  crystal  dome ; 

Dissevered  both  from  all  the  mysteries 

Of  hue  and  altering  shape  that  charmed  all  eyes.  20 

Alas !  they  pined,  they  languished  while  they  shone ; 

And,  if  not  so,  what  matters  beauty  gone 

And  admiration  lost,  by  change  of  place 

That  brings  to  the  inward  creature  no  disgrace  ? 

But  if  the  change  restore  his  birthright,  then,  25 

Whate'er  the  difference,  boundless  is  the  gain. 

Who  can  divine  what  impulses  from  God 

Reach  the  caged  lark,  within  a  town-abode, 

From  his  poor  inch  or  two  of  daisied  sod  ? 

O  yield  him  back  his  privilege ! — No  sea  30 

Swells  like  the  bosom  of  a  man  set  free ; 

A  wilderness  is  rich  with  liberty. 

Roll  on,  ye  spouting  whales,  who  die  or  keep 

Your  independence  in  the  fathomless  Deep ! 

Spread,  tiny  nautilus,  the  living  sail ;  35 

Dive,  at  thy  choice,  or  brave  the  freshening  gale ! 

If  unreproved  the  ambitious  eagle  mount 

Sunward  to  seek  the  daylight  in  its  fount, 

Bays,  gulfs,  and  ocean's  Indian  width,  shall  be, 

Till  the  world  perishes,  a  field  for  thee !  40 

III.  9-12  so  1845: 

That  spreads  into  an  elfin  pool  opaque 

Of  which  close  boughs  a  glimmering  mirror  make, 

On  whose  smooth  breast  with  dimples  light  and  small 

The  fly  may  settle,  leaf  or  blossom  fall.   MS.,  1835-7,  but  1837 

settle,  or  the  blossom 

13-14  Hailstones  and  big  drops  of  the  thunder  shower 
There  swims  (but  how  obscured)  etc.  MS. 

17-18  And  there,  a  darkling  Gnome,  in  sullen  robe  .  .  .  globe  MS.          21 

so  1845:  They  pined,  perhaps,     MS.,  1835-43        40/41  Here  follows  in  the 

MS.  "Humanity"  (t>.  p.  102) 


While  musing  here  I  sit  in  shadow  cool, 
And  watch  these  mute  Companions,  in  the  pool, 
(Among  reflected  boughs  of  leafy  trees) 
By  glimpses  caught — disporting  at  their  ease, 
Enlivened,  braced,  by  hardy  luxuries,  45 

I  ask  what  warrant  fixed  them  (like  a  spell 
Of  witchcraft  fixed  them)  in  the  crystal  cell ; 
To  wheel  with  languid  motion  round  and  round, 
Beautiful,  yet  in  mournful  durance  bound. 
Their  peace,  perhaps,  our  lightest  footfall  marred ;  50 

On  their  quick  sense  our  sweetest  music  jarred ; 
And  whither  could  they  dart,  if  seized  with  fear  ? 
No  sheltering  stone,  no  tangled  root  ^as  near. 
When  fire  or  taper  ceased  to  cheer  the  room, 
They  wore  away  the  night  in  starless  gloom ;  55 

And,  when  the  sun  first  dawned  upon  the  streams, 
How  faint  their  portion  of  his  vital  beams ! 
Thus,  and  unable  to  complain,  they  fared, 
While  not  one  joy  of  ours  by  them  was  shared. 

Is  there  a  cherished  bird  (I  venture  now  60 

To  snatch  a  sprig  from  Chaucer's  reverend  brow) — 
Is  there  a  brilliant  fondling  of  the  cage, 
Though  sure  of  plaudits  on  his  costly  stage, 
Though  fed  with  dainties  from  the  snow-white  hand 
Of  a  kind  mistress,  fairest  of  the  land,  65 

But  gladly  would  escape ;  and,  if  need  were, 
Scatter  the  colours  from  the  plumes  that  bear 
The  emancipated  captive  through  blithe  air 
Into  strange  woods,  where  he  at  large  may  live 
On  best  or  worst  which  they  and  Nature  give  ?  70 

The  beetle  loves  his  unpretending  track, 
The  snail  the  house  he  carries  on  his  back ; 
The  far-fetched  worm  with  pleasure  would  disown 
The  bed  we  give  him,  though  of  softest  down ; 
A  noble  instinct ;  in  all  kinds  the  same,  75 

All  ranks !  What  Sovereign,  worthy  of  the  name, 
If  doomed  to  breathe  against  his  lawful  will 
An  element  that  flatters  him — to  kill, 

42  And  watch  (by  glimpses  caught)  in  this  calm  pool  MS.  44  Those 

mute  Companions,  as  they  sport  at  ease  MS.  47  crystal]  glassy  MS. 

49  mournful     1837:  a  mournful     1885:  piteous  MS. 


But  would  rejoice  to  barter  outward  show 

For  the  least  boon  that  freedom  can  bestow  ?  80 

But  most  the  Bard  is  true  to  inborn  right, 
Lark  of  the  dawn,  and  Philomel  of  night, 
Exults  in  freedom,  can  with  rapture  vouch 
For  the  dear  blessings  of  a  lowly  couch, 
A  natural  meal — days,  months,  from  Nature's  hand ;  85 

Time,  place,  and  business,  all  at  his  command! — 
Who  bends  to  happier  duties,  who  more  wise 
Than  the  industrious  Poet,  taught  to  prize, 
Above  all  grandeur,  a  pure  life  uncrossed 
By  cares  in  which  simplicity  is  lost  ?  90 

That  life — the  flowery  path  that  winds  by  stealth — 
Which  Horace  needed  for  his  spirit's  health ; 
Sighed  for,  in  heart  and  genius,  overcome 
By  noise  and  strife,  and  questions  wearisome, 
And  the  vain  splendours  of  Imperial  Home  ? —  95 

Let  easy  mirth  his  social  hours  inspire, 
And  fiction  animate  his  sportive  lyre, 
Attuned  to  verse  that,  crowning  light  Distress 
With  garlands,  cheats  her  into  happiness ; 
Give  me  the  humblest  note  of  those  sad  strains  100 

Drawn  forth  by  pressure  of  his  gilded  chains, 
As  a  chance-sunbeam  from  his  memory  fell 
Upon  the  Sabine  farm  he  loved  so  well ; 
Or  when  the  prattle  of  Blandusia's  spring 
Haunted  his  ear — he  only  listening —  105 

He  proud  to  please,  above  all  rivals,  fit 
To  win  the  palm  of  gaiety  and  wit  ; 
He,  doubt  not,  with  involuntary  dread, 
Shrinking  from  each  new  favour  to  be  shed, 
By  the  world's  Ruler,  on  his  honoured  head!  no 

In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene, 
Such  earnest  longings  and  regrets  as  keen 
Depressed  the  melancholy  Cowley,  laid 
Under  a  fancied  yew-tree's  luckless  shade ; 
A  doleful  bower  for  penitential  song,  115 

Where  Man  and  Muse  complained  of  mutual  wrong ; 
While  Cam's  ideal  current  glided  by, 

104  Blandusia     1837:  Bandusia     1S35  110  honoured J  laurel' d  MS. 


And  antique  towers  nodded  their  foreheads  high, 

Citadels  dear  to  studious  privacy. 

But  Fortune,  who  had  long  been  used  to  sport  120 

With  this  tried  Servant  of  a  thankless  Court, 

Relenting  met  his  wishes ;  and  to  you 

The  remnant  of  his  days  at  least  was  true ; 

You,  whom,  though  long  deserted,  he  loved  best ; 

You,  Muses,  books,  fields,  liberty,  and  rest!  125 

Far  happier  they  who,  fixing  hope  and  aim 
On  the  humanities  of  peaceful  fame, 
Enter  betimes  with  more  than  martial  fire 
The  generous  course,  aspire,  and  still  aspire ; 
Upheld  by  warnings  heeded  not  too  late  130 

Stifle  the  contradictions  of  their  fate, 
And  to  one  purpose  cleave,  their  Being's  godlike  mate ! 

Thus,  gifted  Friend,  but  with  the  placid  brow 
That  woman  ne'er  should  forfeit,  keep  thy  vow ; 
With  modest  scorn  reject  whate'er  would  blind  135 

The  ethereal  eyesight,  cramp  the  winged  mind ! 
Then,  with  a  blessing  granted  from  above 
To  every  act,  word,  thought,  and  look  of  love, 
Life's  book  for  Thee  may  lie  unclosed,  till  age 
Shall  with  a  thankful  tear  bedrop  its  latest  page.1  140 

1  There  is  now,  alas !  no  possibility  of  the  anticipation,  with  which  the 
above  Epistle  concludes,  being  realised:  nor  were  the  verses  ever  seen  by 
the  Individual  for  whom  they  were  intended.  She  accompanied  her  hus- 
band, the  Rev.  Wm.  Fletcher,  to  India,  and  died  of  cholera,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-two  or  thirty-three  years,  on  her  way  from  Shalapore  to  Bombay, 
deeply  lamented  by  all  who  knew  her. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  ardent,  her  piety  steadfast ;  and  her  great  talents 
would  have  enabled  her  to  be  eminently  useful  in  the  difficult  path  of  life 
to  which  she  had  been  called.  The  opinion  she  entertained  of  her  own  per- 
formances, given  to  the  world  under  her  maiden  name,  Jewsbury,  was 
modest  and  humble,  and,  indeed,  far  below  their  merits,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  those  who  are  making  trial  of  their  powers,  with  a  hope  to  discover 
what  they  are  best  fitted  for.  In  one  quality,  viz.  quickness  in  the  motions 
of  her  mind,  she  had,  within  the  range  of  the  Author's  acquaintance,  no 

125/6  Whose  was  that  voice  that  like  a  Trumpet  spake 
From  lawn  and  woodland,  from  the  gleaming  lake, 
From  heaven's  blue  depth  above  the  mountain's  head 
And  from  my  heart  not  dulled  by  age  ?   It  said 
"Thrice  happy  they  etc.  MS.  deleted 

126  Far     1837:  But     1835         127  humanities]  humanity  MS. 



[Composed  March,  1840. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

Now  when  the  primrose  makes  a  splendid  show, 

And  lilies  face  the  March-winds  in  full  blow, 

And  humbler  growths  as  moved  with  one  desire 

Put  on,  to  welcome  spring,  their  best  attire, 

Poor  Robin  is  yet  flowerless ;  but  how  gay  5 

With  his  red  stalks  upon  this  sunny  day ! 

And,  as  his  tufts  of  leaves  he  spreads,  content 

With  a  hard  bed  and  scanty  nourishment, 

Mixed  with  the  green,  some  shine  not  lacking  power 

To  rival  summer's  brightest  scarlet  flower ;  10 

And  flowers  they  well  might  seem  to  passers-by 

If  looked  at  only  with  a  careless  eye ; 

Flowers — or  a  richer  produce  (did  it  suit 

The  season)  sprinklings  of  ripe  strawberry  fruit. 

But  while  a  thousand  pleasures  come  unsought,  15 

Why  fix  upon  his  wealth  or  want  a  thought  ? 
Is  the  string  touched  in  prelude  to  a  lay 
Of  pretty  fancies  that  would  round  him  play 
When  all  the  world  acknowledged  elfin  sway  ? 
Or  does  it  suit  our  humour  to  commend  20 

Poor  Robin  as  a  sure  and  crafty  friend, 
Whose  practice  teaches,  spite  of  names  to  show 
Bright  colours  whether  they  deceive  or  no  ? — 
Nay,  we  would  simply  praise  the  free  good-will 
With  which,  though  slighted,  he,  on  naked  hill  25 

Or  in  warm  valley,  seeks  his  part  to  fill ; 
Cheerful  alike  if  bare  of  flowers  as  now, 
Or  when  his  tiny  gems  shall  deck  his  brow : 
Yet  more,  we  wish  that  men  by  men  despised, 
And  such  as  lift  their  foreheads  overprized,  3° 

Should  sometimes  think,  where'er  they  chance  to  spy 
1  The  small  wild  Geranium  known  by  that  name. 

IV.  6  Flowerless  is  ragged  Robin!     MS.  7  tufts     1845:  tuft     1842 

16  Upon  his  want  or  wealth  why  fix  a  thought  ?  MS.         20  Or  would  the 
humour  of  our  verse  commend  MS.         24  free]  pure     MS.         25-6  With 
which,  though  scorned,  he  seeks  his  part  to  fill  MS.         28  gems  shall  deck] 
wreaths  adorn  MS. 
31-4  .  .  .  when  they  this  Plant  espy 

Even  though  a  sleety  blast  be  whirling  by  MS. 


This  child  of  Nature's  own  humility, 

What  recompense  is  kept  in  store  or  left 

For  all  that  seem  neglected  or  bereft ; 

With  what  nice  care  equivalents  are  given,  35 

How  just,  how  bountiful,  the  hand  of  Heaven. 




[Composed  March,  1828.— Published,  as  "The  Country  Girl",  1829  (The 

Keepsake);  ed.  1832.] 

THAT  happy  gleam  of  vernal  eyes, 
Those  locks  from  summer's  golden  skies, 

That  o'er  thy  brow  are  shed ; 
That  cheek — a  kindling  of  the  morn, 
That  lip — a  rose-bud  from  the  thorn,  5 

I  saw ;  and  Fancy  sped 

To  scenes  Arcadian,  whispering,  through  soft  air, 
Of  bliss  that  grows  without  a  care, 
And  happiness  that  never  flies — 

(How  can  it  where  love  never  dies  ?)  10 

Whispering  of  promise,  where  no  blight 
Can  reach  the  innocent  delight ; 
Where  pity,  to  the  mind  conveyed 
In  pleasure,  is  the  darkest  shade 

That  Time,  un wrinkled  grandsire,  flings  15 

From  his  smoothly  gliding  wings. 

What  mortal  form,  what  earthly  face 
Inspired  the  pencil,  lines  to  trace, 
And  mingle  colours,  that  should  breed 
Such  rapture,  nor  want  power  to  feed ;  20 

For  had  thy  charge  been  idle  flowers, 
Fair  Damsel !  o'er  my  captive  mind, 
To  truth  and  sober  reason  blind, 
'Mid  that  soft  air,  those  long-lost  bowers, 
The  sweet  illusion  might  have  hung,  for  hours.  25 

V.  1  gleam]  smile  MS.  9  And  happiness      1837:  Of  loveliness  MS. 

Of  happiness     1829,  1832  11  so  1837:  Of  promise  whispering,   MS., 

1829,  1832  20  power]  skill  MS. 


Thanks  to  this  tell-tale  sheaf  of  corn, 
That  touchingiy  bespeaks  thee  born 
Life's  daily  tasks  with  them  to  share 
Who,  whether  from  their  lowly  bed 
They  rise,  or  rest  the  weary  head,  30 

Ponder  the  blessing  they  entreat 
From  Heaven,  and  feel  what  they  repeat, 
While  they  give  utterance  to  the  prayer 
That  asks  for  daily  bread. 



[Composed  ?. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

STAY,  little  cheerful  Robin !  stay, 

And  at  my  casement  sing, 
Though  it  should  prove  a  farewell  lay 

And  this  our  parting  spring. 

Though  I,  alas!  may  ne'er  enjoy  5 

The  promise  in  thy  song ; 
A  charm,  that  thought  can  not  destroy, 

Doth  to  thy  strain  belong. 

Methinks  that  in  my  dying  hour 

Thy  song  would  still  be  dear,  10 

And  with  a  more  than  earthly  power 

My  passing  Spirit  cheer. 

Then,  little  Bird,  this  boon  confer, 

Come,  and  my  requiem  sing, 
Nor  fail  to  be  the  harbinger  15 

Of  everlasting  Spring. 

S.  H. 


[Composed  January,  1846. — Published  1850.] 

I  KNOW  an  aged  Man  constrained  to  dwell 
In  a  large  house  of  public  charity, 
Where  he  abides,  as  in  a  Prisoner's  cell, 
With  numbers  near,  alas !  no  company. 
31  Ponder     1832:  Do  weigh  MS.,  1829 


When  he  could  creep  about,  at  will,  though  poor  5 

And  forced  to  live  on  alms,  this  old  Man  fed 
A  Redbreast,  one  that  to  his  cottage  door 
Came  not,  but  in  a  lane  partook  his  bread. 

There,  at  the  root  of  one  particular  tree, 

An  easy  seat  this  worn-out  Labourer  found  10 

While  Robin  pecked  the  crumbs  upon  his  knee 

Laid  one  by  one,  or  scattered  on  the  ground. 

Dear  intercourse  was  theirs,  day  after  day ; 

What  signs  of  mutual  gladness  when  they  met ! 

Think  of  their  common  peace,  their  simple  play,  15 

The  parting  moment  and  its  fond  regret. 

Months  passed  in  love  that  failed  not  to  fulfil, 

In  spite  of  season's  change,  its  own  demand, 

By  fluttering  pinions  here  and  busy  bill ; 

There  by  caresses  from  a  tremulous  hand.  20 

Thus  in  the  chosen  spot  a  tie  so  strong 

Was  formed  between  the  solitary  pair, 

That  when  his  fate  had  housed  him  'mid  a  throng 

The  Captive  shunned  all  converse  proffered  there. 

Wife,  children,  kindred,  they  were  dead  and  gone ;          25 
But,  if  no  evil  hap  his  wishes  crossed, 
One  living  Stay  was  left,  and  in  that  one 
Some  recompense  for  all  that  he  had  lost. 

O  that  the  good  old  Man  had  power  to  prove, 

By  message  sent  through  air  or  visible  token,  30 

That  still  he  loves  the  Bird,  and  still  must  love ; 

That  friendship  lasts  though  fellowship  is  broken ! 

VII.  6  When  he  was  free  to  move  about  MS.  1      6  this  old  Man]  he  duly 
MS.  1  8  lane]  grove  MSS.  13  Thither  alone  he  crept  MSS. 

15  The  common  meal,  the  pastime  grave  or  gay  MSS. 
17-18  ...  and  love  failed  never  to  fulfil 

With  the  returning  light,  its  fresh  demand  MSS. 

21  the  chosen  spot]  that  shady  grove  MSS.  23-4  That  when  com- 

pelled to  house  . . .  The  old  Man  shunned  MSS. ;  That  when  the  aged  Pauper 
.  .  .  Was  housed,  he  shunned  MS.  2        24  proffered]  that  was  MS.        25 
Wife,  child  and  kindred  all  MS.         27  in  MS. ;  on  1850 
917.17  IV  M 



[Composed  1846.— Published  1850.] 

AFFECTIONS  lose  their  object ;  Time  brings  forth 

No  successors ;  and,  lodged  in  memory, 

If  love  exist  no  longer,  it  must  die, — 

Wanting  accustomed  food,  must  pass  from  earth, 

Or  never  hope  to  reach  a  second  birth.  5 

This  sad  belief,  the  happiest  that  is  left 

To  thousands,  share  not  Thou ;  howe'er  bereft, 

Scorned,  or  neglected,  fear  not  such  a  dearth. 

Though  poor  and  destitute  of  friends  thou  art, 

Perhaps  the  sole  survivor  of  thy  race,  10 

One  to  whom  Heaven  assigns  that  mournful  part 

The  utmost  solitude  of  age  to  face, 

Still  shall  be  left  some  corner  of  the  heart 

Where  Love  for  living  Thing  can  find  a  place. 


These  lines  are  by  the  Author  of  the  Address  to  the  Wind,  &c.,  published 
heretofore  along  with  my  poems.  Those  to  a  Redbreast  are  by  a  de- 
ceased female  Relative. 

[Composed?. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

HARMONIOUS  Powers  with  Nature  work 
On  sky,  earth,  river,  lake  and  sea ; 
Sunshine  and  cloud,  whirlwind  and  breeze, 
All  in  one  duteous  task  agree. 

Once  did  I  see  a  slip  of  earth  5 

(By  throbbing  waves  long  undermined) 

Loosed  from  its  hold ;  how,  no  one  knew, 

But  all  might  see  it  float,  obedient  to  the  wind ; 

VIII.  1  When  Man's  affections  perish,  Time  etc.  MS.  2  lodged  in] 

in  the  MS.          3  .  .  exist  not,  it  must  droop  and  die  MS.          5  To  gain 
another  world,  a  second  birth  MS.  6  Wanderer,  this  sad  belief  the 

happiest  left  MS.  2         8  fear]  dread  MS.  13  shall  be]  is  there  MS. 


Might  see  it,  from  the  mossy  shore 

Dissevered,  float  upon  the  Lake,  10 

Float  with  its  crest  of  trees  adorned 

On  which  the  warbling  birds  their  pastime  take. 

Food,  shelter,  safety,  there  they  find ; 

There  berries  ripen,  flowerets  bloom ; 

There  insects  live  their  lives,  and  die ;  15 

A  peopled  world  it  is ;  in  size  a  tiny  room. 

And  thus  through  many  seasons'  space 

This  little  Island  may  survive ; 

But  Nature,  though  we  mark  her  not, 

Will  take  away,  may  cease  to  give.  20 

Perchance  when  you  are  wandering  forth 

Upon  some  vacant  sunny  day, 

Without  an  object,  hope,  or  fear, 

Thither  your  eyes  may  turn — the  Isle  is  passed  away ; 

Buried  beneath  the  glittering  Lake,  25 

Its  place  no  longer  to  be  found ; 
Yet  the  lost  fragments  shall  remain 
To  fertilise  some  other  ground. 

D.  W. 


[Composed  ?. — Published  1850.] 

How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high 

Her  way  pursuing  among  scattered  clouds, 

Where,  ever  and  anon,  her  head  she  shrouds 

Hidden  from  view  in  dense  obscurity. 

But  look,  and  to  the  watchful  eye 

A  brightening  edge  will  indicate  that  soon 

We  shall  behold  the  struggling  Moon 

Break  forth, — again  to  walk  the  clear  blue  sky. 


44  Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone 
Wi'  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme." 

Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Percy's  Reliques. 
[Composed  1826. — Published  1827.] 

ONCE  I  could  hail  (howe'er  serene  the  sky) 
The  Moon  re-entering  her  monthly  round, 
No  faculty  yet  given  me  to  espy 


The  dusky  Shape  within  her  arms  imbound, 

That  thin  memento  of  effulgence  lost  5 

Which  some  have  named  her  Predecessor's  ghost. 

Young,  like  the  Crescent  that  above  me  shone, 

Nought  I  perceived  within  it  dull  or  dim ; 

All  that  appeared  was  suitable  to  One 

Whose  fancy  had  a  thousand  fields  to  skim ;  10 

To  expectations  spreading  with  wild  growth, 

And  hope  that  kept  me  with  her  plighted  troth. 

I  saw  (ambition  quickening  at  the  view) 

A  silver  boat  launched  on  a  boundless  flood ; 

A  pearly  crest,  like  Dian's  when  it  threw  15 

Its  brightest  splendour  round  a  leafy  wood ; 

But  not  a  hint  from  under-ground,  no  sign 

Fit  for  the  glimmering  brow  of  Proserpine. 

Or  was  it  Dian's  self  that  seemed  to  move 

Before  me  ? — nothing  blemished  the  fair  sight ;  20 

On  her  I  looked  whom  jocund  Fairies  love, 

Cynthia,  who  puts  the  little  stars  to  flight. 

And  by  that  thinning  magnifies  the  great, 

For  exaltation  of  her  sovereign  state. 

And  when  I  learned  to  mark  the  spectral  Shape  25 

As  each  new  Moon  obeyed  the  call  of  Time, 

If  gloom  fell  on  me,  swift  was  my  escape ; 

Such  happy  privilege  hath  life's  gay  Prime, 

To  see  or  not  to  see,  as  best  may  please 

A  buoyant  Spirit,  and  a  heart  at  ease.  30 

Now,  dazzling  Stranger !  when  thou  meet'st  my  glance, 

Thy  dark  Associate  ever  I  discern ; 

Emblem  of  thoughts  too  eager  to  advance 

While  I  salute  my  joys,  thoughts  sad  or  stern ; 

Shades  of  past  bliss,  or  phantoms  that,  to  gain  35 

Their  fill  of  promised  lustre,  wait  in  vain. 

So  changes  mortal  Life  with  fleeting  years ; 

A  mournful  change,  should  Reason  fail  to  bring 

The  timely  insight  that  can  temper  fears, 

And  from  vicissitude  remove  its  sting ;  40 

While  Faith  aspires  to  seats  in  that  domain 

Where  joys  are  perfect — neither  wax  nor  wane. 




[Composed  January,  1823. — Published  1827.] 


BLEST  is  this  Isle — our  native  Land ; 
Where  battlement  and  moated  gate 
Are  objects  only  for  the  hand 
Of  hoary  Time  to  decorate ; 

Where  shady  hamlet,  town  that  breathes  5 

Its  busy  smoke  in  social  wreaths, 
No  rampart's  stern  defence  require, 
Nought  but  the  heaven-directed  spire, 
And  steeple  tower  (with  pealing  bells 
Far-heard) — our  only  citadels.  10 


O  Lady !  from  a  noble  line 
Of  chieftains  sprung,  who  stoutly  bore 
The  spear,  yet  gave  to  works  divine 
A  bounteous  help  in  days  of  yore, 
(As  records  mouldering  in  the  Dell  15 

Of  Nightshade1  haply  yet  may  tell ;) 
Thee  kindred  aspirations  moved 
To  build,  within  a  vale  beloved, 
For  Him  upon  whose  high  behests 
All  peace  depends,  all  safety  rests.  20 


How  fondly  will  the  woods  embrace 
This  daughter  of  thy  pious  care, 
Lifting  her  front  with  modest  grace 
To  make  a  fair  recess  more  fair ; 
And  to  exalt  the  passing  hour ;  25 

1  Bekangs  Ghyll — or  the  dell  of  the  Nightshade — in  which  stands  St. 
Mary's  Abbey  in  Low  Furness. 

XII.  6  busy  .  .  .  social]  tranquil  .  .  .  silver  MS.  1 

21-3  so  MS.  1,  1832: 

Even  Strangers,  slackening  here  their  pace, 
Shall  bless  this  work  of  pious  care, 
Lifting  its     1827 

21-30,  31-40  in  reverse  order     1827 


Or  soothe  it  with  a  healing  power 

Drawn  from  the  Sacrifice  fulfilled, 

Before  this  rugged  soil  was  tilled, 

Or  human  habitation  rose 

To  interrupt  the  deep  repose !  3° 


Well  may  the  villagers  rejoice! 

Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  weary  ways, 

Will  be  a  hindrance  to  the  voice 

That  would  unite  in  prayer  and  praise ; 

More  duly  shall  wild  wandering  Youth  35 

Receive  the  curb  of  sacred  truth, 

Shall  tottering  Age,  bent  earthward,  hear 

The  Promise,  with  uplifted  ear ; 

And  all  shall  welcome  the  new  ray 

Imparted  to  their  sabbath-day.  40 


Nor  deem  the  Poet's  hope  misplaced, 
His  fancy  cheated — that  can  see 
A  shade  upon  the  future  cast, 
Of  time's  pathetic  sanctity ; 

Can  hear  the  monitory  clock  45 

Sound  o'er  the  lake  with  gentle  shock 
At  evening,  when  the  ground  beneath 
Is  ruffled  o'er  with  cells  of  death ; 
Where  happy  generations  lie, 
Here  tutored  for  eternity.  5° 


Lives  there  a  man  whose  sole  delights 
Are  trivial  pomp  and  city  noise, 
Hardening  a  heart  that  loathes  or  slights 
What  every  natural  heart  enjoys  ? 

26-8  With  saintly  thoughts  on  Him  whose  power 
The  circuit  of  these  mountains  filled 
Ere  the  primaeval  MS.  1 

31-50  not  in  MS.  1  32  Nor  storms  henceforth  MS.  37  The  aged 

shall  be  free  to  hear  MS.  41-50  not  in  MS.  2 

41-6  so  1832:  Not  yet  the  corner  stone  is  laid 

With  solemn  rite ;  but  Fancy  sees 

The  tower  time-stricken,  and  in  shade 

Embosomed  of  coeval  trees ; 

Hears,  o'er  the  lake,  the  warning  clock 

As  it  shall  sound  with  gentle  shock   1827 


Who  never  caught  a  noon-tide  dream  55 

From  murmur  of  a  running  stream ; 

Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 

To  him,  their  verdure  from  the  fields ; 

And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 

In  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds.  60 


A  soul  so  pitiably  forlorn, 

If  such  do  on  this  earth  abide, 

May  season  apathy  with  scorn, 

May  turn  indifference  to  pride ; 

And  still  be  not  unblest — compared  65 

With  him  who  grovels,  self-debarred 

From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 

Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope  ; 

Or,  ship  wreck 'd,  kindles  on  the  coast 

False  fires,  that  others  may  be  lost.  70 


Alas !  that  such  perverted  zeal 
Should  spread  on  Britain's  favoured  ground ! 
That  public  order,  private  weal, 
Should  e'er  have  felt  or  feared  a  wound 
From  champions  of  the  desperate  law  75 

Which  from  their  own  blind  hearts  they  draw ; 
Who  tempt  their  reason  to  deny 
God,  whom  their  passions  dare  defy, 
And  boast  that  they  alone  are  free 
Who  reach  this  dire  extremity !  80 

65  noon- tide]  soothing    MS.  1 

61—7  Fields — sunset  clouds — and  sky  of  morn 

Opening  in  splendor  deep  and  wide 

That  Worldling  may  renounce  with  scorn, 

And  in  his  chosen  seat  abide ; 

A  Spirit  not  unblest — compared 

With  One  who  fosters  disregard 

For  etc.   MS.  1 
69-70  so  1827,  1845: 

Yea,  strives  for  others  to  bedim 

The  glorious  Light  too  pure  for  him    MS.  2,  1832-43;  strives  that 
lustre  . . .  For  others,  which  has  failed  for  him    MS.  1 
71  perverted]  distempered  MS.  1         72  favoured]  happy  MS.  1 
75-6  From  Scoffers  leagued  in  desperate  plot 

To  make  their  own  the  general  lot ;  MS.  2 

From  reckless  (lawless)  Men  who  etc.  corr.  to  From  impious  Anarchists  MS.  1 
78  dare]  do  MS.  1 



But  turn  we  from  these  "bold  bad"  men ; 
The  way,  mild  Lady !  that  hath  led 
Down  to  their  "dark  opprobrious  den," 
Is  all  too  rough  for  Thee  to  tread. 
Softly  as  morning  vapours  glide  85 

Down  Rydal-cove  from  Fairfield's  side, 
Should  move  the  tenor  of  his  song 
Who  means  to  charity  no  wrong ; 
Whose  offering  gladly  would  accord 
With  this  day's  work,  in  thought  and  word.  90 


Heaven  prosper  it !  may  peace,  and  love, 

And  hope,  and  consolation,  fall, 

Through  its  meek  influence,  from  above, 

And  penetrate  the  hearts  of  all ; 

All  who,  around  the  hallowed  Fane,  95 

Shall  sojourn  in  this  fair  domain ; 

Grateful  to  Thee,  while  service  pure, 

And  ancient  ordinance,  shall  endure, 

For  opportunity  bestowed 

To  fcneel  together,  and  adore  their  God !  100 


Oh !  gather  whencesoe'er  ye  safely  may 
The  help  which  slackening  Piety  requires ; 
Nor  deem  that  he  perforce  must  go  astray 
Who  treads  upon  the  footmarks  of  his  sires. 

Our  churches,  invariably  perhaps,  stand  east  and  west,  but  why  is  by  few 
persons  exactly  known ;  nor  that  the  degree  of  deviation  from  due  east 
often  noticeable  in  the  ancient  ones  was  determined,  in  each  particular 
case,  by  the  point  in  the  horizon  at  which  the  sun  rose  upon  the  day  of 
the  saint  to  whom  the  church  was  dedicated.  These  observances  of  our 
ancestors,  and  the  causes  of  them,  are  the  subject  of  the  following  stanzas. 

[Composed  1823.— Published  1827.] 

WHEN  in  the  antique  age  of  bow  and  spear 
And  feudal  rapine  clothed  with  iron  mail, 
Came  ministers  of  peace,  intent  to  rear 
The  Mother  Church  in  yon  sequestered  vale ; 

85-6  Soft  as  the  morning  mists  that  glide  Through  MS.  1         86  so  1832: 
Through  Mosedale-cove  from  Carrock's  side     1827  87  tenor]  motion 

MS.  1 
XIII.  4  The  Church  that  hallows  yon  MS.  1 


Then,  to  her  Patron  Saint  a  previous  rite  5 

Resounded  with  deep  swell  and  solemn  close, 
Through  unremitting  vigils  of  the  night, 
Till  from  his  couch  the  wished-for  Sun  uprose. 

He  rose,  and  straight — as  by  divine  command, 
They,  who  had  waited  for  that  sign  to  trace  10 

Their  work's  foundation,  gave  with  careful  hand 
To  the  high  altar  its  determined  place ; 

Mindful  of  Him  who  in  the  Orient  born 

There  lived,  and  on  the  cross  his  life  resigned, 

And  who,  from  out  the  regions  of  the  morn,  15 

Issuing  in  pomp,  shall  come  to  judge  mankind. 

So  taught  their  creed ; — nor  failed  the  eastern  sky, 

'Mid  these  more  awful  feelings,  to  infuse 

The  sweet  and  natural  hopes  that  shall  not  die, 

Long  as  the  sun  his  gladsome  course  renews.  20 

For  us  hath  such  prelusive  vigil  ceased ; 

Yet  still  we  plant,  like  men  of  elder  days, 

Our  Christian  altar  faithful  to  the  east, 

Whence  the  tall  window  drinks  the  morning  rays ; 

That  obvious  emblem  giving  to  the  eye  25 

Of  meek  devotion,  which  erewhile  it  gave, 
That  symbol  of  the  day-spring  from  on  high, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 


[Composed  1806.— Published  1807.] 

ERE  the  Brothers  through  the  gateway 
Issued  forth  with  old  and  young, 
To  the  Horn  Sir  Eustace  pointed 
Which  for  ages  there  had  hung. 

9  Straight,  as  if  urged  by  a  MSS.         14  and  there  a  bitter  death  did  find 

MS.  1  20  gladsome]  vital  MS.  1 

26-8  That  emblem  yielding  as  it  fronts  the  source 

Of  light  restored  which  heretofore  it  gave 

Of  dust  enkindled — and  thy  mouldered  corse 

O  Man !  resurgent  from  the  gloomy  grave.  MS. 
XIV.   1-4  so  1845: 

When  the  Brothers  reach'd  the  gateway, 

Eustace  pointed  with  his  lance 

To  the  Horn  which  there  was  hanging ; 

Horn  of  the  inheritance.     1807-43 


Horn  it  was  which  none  could  sound,  5 

No  one  upon  living  ground, 

Save  He  who  came  as  rightful  Heir 

To  Egremont's  Domains  and  Castle  fair. 

Heirs  from  times  of  earliest  record 

Had  the  House  of  Lucie  born,  10 

Who  of  right  had  held  the  Lordship 

Claimed  by  proof  upon  the  Horn : 

Each  at  the  appointed  hour 

Tried  the  Horn, — it  owned  his  power ; 

He  was  acknowledged :  and  the  blast,  15 

Which  good  Sir  Eustace  sounded,  was  the  last. 

With  his  lance  Sir  Eustace  pointed, 

And  to  Hubert  thus  said  he, 

( What  I  speak  this  Horn  shall  witness 

For  thy  better  memory.  20 

Hear,  then,  and  neglect  me  not ! 

At  this  time,  and  on  this  spot, 

The  words  are  uttered  from  my  heart, 

As  my  last  earnest  prayer  ere  we  depart. 

"On  good  service  we  are  going  25 

Life  to  risk  by  sea  and  land, 

In  which  course  if  Christ  our  Saviour 

Do  my  sinful  soul  demand, 

Hither  come  thou  back  straightway, 

Hubert,  if  alive  that  day ;  30 

Return,  and  sound  the  Horn,  that  we 

May  have  a  living  House  still  left  in  thee!" 

"Fear  not,"  quickly  answered  Hubert; 

"As  I  am  thy  Father's  son, 

What  thou  askest,  noble  Brother,  35 

With  God's  favour  shall  be  done." 

So  were  both  right  well  content : 

Forth  they  from  the  Castle  went, 

And  at  the  head  of  their  Array 

To  Palestine  the  Brothers  took  their  way.  40 

9  so  1845:  Heirs  from  ages  without  record     1807-43  11  held     1846: 

claim'd     1807-43  12  Claimed  by     1845:  By  the     1807-43  38  so 

1845:  From  the  Castle  forth  they  went,     1807-43 


Side  by  side  they  fought  (the  Lucies 

Were  a  line  for  valour  famed) 

And  where'er  their  strokes  alighted, 

There  the  Saracens  were  tamed. 

Whence,  then,  could  it  come — the  thought —  45 

By  what  evil  spirit  brought  ? 

Oh !  can  a  brave  Man  wish  to  take 

His  Brother's  life,  for  Lands'  and  Castle's  sake  ? 

"Sir!"  the  Ruffians  said  to  Hubert, 

"Deep  he  lies  in  Jordan  flood."  5° 

Stricken  by  this  ill  assurance, 

Pale  and  trembling  Hubert  stood. 

"Take  your  earnings." — Oh!  that  I 

Could  have  seen  my  Brother  die! 

It  was  a  pang  that  vexed  him  then ;  55 

And  oft  returned,  again,  and  yet  again. 

Months  passed  on,  and  no  Sir  Eustace ! 

Nor  of  him  were  tidings  heard ; 

Wherefore,  bold  as  day,  the  Murderer 

Back  again  to  England  steered.  60 

To  his  Castle  Hubert  sped  ; 

Nothing  has  he  now  to  dread. 

But  silent  and  by  stealth  he  came, 

And  at  an  hour  which  nobody  could  name. 

None  could  tell  if  it  were  night-time,  65 

Night  or  day,  at  even  or  morn ; 

No  one's  eye  had  seen  him  enter, 

No  one's  ear  had  heard  the  Horn. 

But  bold  Hubert  lives  in  glee : 

Months  and  years  went  smilingly ;  70 

With  plenty  was  his  table  spread ; 

And  bright  the  Lady  is  who  shares  his  bed. 

Likewise  he  had  sons  and  daughters ; 

And,  as  good  men  do,  he  sate 

At  his  board  by  these  surrounded,  75 

Flourishing  in  fair  estate. 

62  so  1845:  He  has  nothing     1807-43 
67-8  so  1845:  For  the  sound  was  heard  by  no  one 
Of  the  proclamation-horn.  1807-43 


And  while  thus  in  open  day 

Once  he  sate,  as  old  books  say, 

A  blast  was  uttered  from  the  Horn, 

Where  by  the  Castle-gate  it  hung  forlorn.  80 

'Tis  the  breath  of  good  Sir  Eustace ! 

He  is  come  to  claim  his  right : 

Ancient  castle,  woods,  and  mountains 

Hear  the  challenge  with  delight. 

Hubert !  though  the  blast  be  blown  85 

He  is  helpless  and  alone : 

Thou  hast  a  dungeon,  speak  the  word ! 

And  there  he  may  be  lodged,  and  thou  be  Lord. 

Speak ! — astounded  Hubert  cannot ; 

And,  if  power  to  speak  he  had,  90 

All  are  daunted,  all  the  household 

Smitten  to  the  heart,  and  sad. 

'Tis  Sir  Eustace ;  if  it  be 

Living  man,  it  must  be  he ! 

Thus  Hubert  thought  in  his  dismay,  95 

And  by  a  postern-gate  he  slunk  away. 

Long,  and  long  was  he  unheard  of: 

To  his  Brother  then  he  came, 

Made  confession,  asked  forgiveness, 

Asked  it  by  a  brother's  name,  100 

And  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven ; 

And  of  Eustace  was  forgiven  : 

Then  in  a  convent  went  to  hide 

His  melancholy  head,  and  there  he  died. 

But  Sir  Eustace,  whom  good  angels  105 

Had  preserved  from  murderers'  hands, 

And  from  Pagan  chains  had  rescued, 

Lived  with  honour  on  his  lands. 

Sons  he  had,  saw  sons  of  theirs : 

And  through  ages,  heirs  of  heirs,  no 

A  long  posterity  renowned, 

Sounded  the  Horn  which  they  alone  could  sound. 



[Composed  1798. — Published  1798.] 

OH  !  what  Js  the  matter  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 

What  is  9t  that  ails  young  Harry  Gill  ? 

That  evermore  his  teeth  they  chatter, 

Chatter,  chatter,  chatter  still ! 

Of  waistcoats  Harry  has  no  lack,  5 

Good  duffle  grey,  and  flannel  fine ; 

He  has  a  blanket  on  his  back, 

And  coats  enough  to  smother  nine. 

In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 

Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ;  10 

The  neighbours  tell,  and  tell  you  truly, 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 

At  night,  at  morning,  and  at  noon, 

'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ; 

Beneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  moon,  15 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still ! 

Young  Harry  was  a  lusty  drover, 

And  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he  ? 

His  cheeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover ; 

His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  three.  20 

Old  Goody  Blake  was  old  and  poor ; 

111  fed  she  was,  and  thinly  clad ; 

And  any  man  who  passed  her  door 

Might  see  how  poor  a  hut  she  had. 

All  day  she  spun  in  her  poor  dwelling :  25 

And  then  her  three  hours'  work  at  night, 

Alas !  'twas  hardly  worth  the  telling, 

It  would  not  pay  for  candle-light. 

Remote  from  sheltered  village-green, 

On  a  hill's  northern  side  she  dwelt,  30 

Where  from  sea-blasts  the  hawthorns  lean, 

And  hoary  dews  are  slow  to  melt. 

XV.  21  Old     1802:  Auld     1798-1800 

29-32  so  1837:  This  woman  dwelt  in  Dorsetshire, 

Her  hut  was  on  a  cold  hill-side, 

And  in  that  country  coals  are  dear, 

For  they  come  far  by  wind  and  tide.    1798-1815;  1820-32 
as  text  but  sheltering  (29)  and  in  1820  only   Upon  a  bleak  hill-side  (30) 


By  the  same  fire  to  boil  their  pottage, 

Two  poor  old  Dames,  as  I  have  known, 

Will  often  live  in  one  small  cottage ;  35 

But  she,  poor  Woman!  housed  alone. 

'Twas  well  enough,  when  summer  came, 

The  long,  warm,  lightsome  summer-day, 

Then  at  her  door  the  canty  Dame 

Would  sit,  as  any  linnet,  gay.  4° 

But  when  the  ice  our  streams  did  fetter, 

Oh  then  how  her  old  bones  would  shake ! 

You  would  have  said,  if  you  had  met  her, 

'Twas  a  hard  time  for  Goody  Blake. 

Her  evenings  then  were  dull  and  dead :  45 

Sad  case  it  was,  as  you  may  think, 

For  very  cold  to  go  to  bed ; 

And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a  wink. 

O  joy  for  her!  whene'er  in  winter 

The  winds  at  night  had  made  a  rout ;  50 

And  scattered  many  a  lusty  splinter 

And  many  a  rotten  bough  about. 

Yet  never  had  she,  well  or  sick, 

As  every  man  who  knew  her  says, 

A  pile  beforehand,  turf  or  stick,  55 

Enough  to  warm  her  for  three  days. 

Now,  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring, 

And  made  her  poor  old  bones  to  ache, 

Could  any  thing  be  more  alluring 

Than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody  Blake  ?  60 

And,  now  and  then,  it  must  be  said, 

When  her  old  bones  were  cold  and  chill, 

She  left  her  fire,  or  left  her  bed, 

To  seek  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill. 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected  65 

This  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake ; 
And  vowed  that  she  should  be  detected — 
That  he  on  her  would  vengeance  take. 
And  oft  from  his  warm  fire  he'd  go, 
And  to  the  fields  his  road  would  take ;  70 

And  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow, 
He  watched  to  seize  old  Goody  Blake. 
36  housed    1820:  dwelt    1798-1815         55  turf    1827:  wood    1798-1820 


And  once,  behind  a  rick  of  barley, 

Thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand : 

The  moon  was  full  and  shining  clearly,  75 

And  crisp  with  frost  the  stubble  land. 

— He  hears  a  noise — he  's  all  awake — 

Again  ? — on  tip-toe  down  the  hill 

He  softly  creeps — 'tis  Goody  Blake ; 

She  's  at  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill !  80 

Right  glad  was  he  when  he  beheld  her: 

Stick  after  stick  did  Goody  pull : 

He  stood  behind  a  bush  of  elder, 

Till  she  had  filled  her  apron  full. 

When  with  her  load  she  turned  about,  85 

The  by-way  back  again  to  take ; 

He  started  forward,  with  a  shout, 

And  sprang  upon  poor  Goody  Blake. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  took  her, 

And  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast,  90 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her, 

And  cried,  "I've  caught  you  then  at  last!" 

Then  Goody,  who  had  nothing  said, 

Her  bundle  from  her  lap  let  fall ; 

And,  kneeling  on  the  sticks,  she  prayed  95 

To  God  that  is  the  judge  of  all. 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing, 

While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm — 

"God!  who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 

O  may  he  never  more  be  warm!"  100 

The  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head, 

Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray ; 

Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said  : 

And  icy  cold  he  turned  away. 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow  105 

That  he  was  cold  and  very  chill : 

His  face  was  gloom,  his  heart  was  sorrow, 

Alas !  that  day  for  Harry  GiU ! 

That  day  he  wore  a  riding-coat, 

But  not  a  whit  the  warmer  he :  no 

Another  was  on  Thursday  brought, 

And  ere  the  Sabbath  he  had  three. 

86  by-way     1827:  by-road     1798-1820 


'Twas  all  in  vain,  a  useless  matter, 

And  blankets  were  about  him  pinned ; 

Yet  still  Ms  jaws  and  teeth  they  clatter,  115 

Like  a  loose  casement  in  the  wind. 

And  Harry's  flesh  it  fell  away ; 

And  all  who  see  him  say,  'tis  plain, 

That,  live  as  long  as  live  he  may, 

He  never  will  be  warm  again.  120 

No  word  to  any  man  he  utters, 

A-bed  or  up,  to  young  or  old ; 

But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 

"Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold." 

A-bed  or  up,  by  night  or  day ;  125 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 

Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I  pray, 

Of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill! 



[Composed  March,  1842. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

IN  desultory  walk  through  orchard  grounds, 

Or  some  deep  chestnut  grove,  oft  have  I  paused 

The  while  a  Thrush,  urged  rather  than  restrained 

By  gusts  of  vernal  storm,  attuned  his  song 

To  his  own  genial  instincts ;  and  was  heard  5 

(Though  not  without  some  plaintive  tones  between) 

To  utter,  above  showers  of  blossom  swept 

From  tossing  boughs,  the  promise  of  a  calm, 

Which  the  unsheltered  traveller  might  receive 

With  thankful  spirit.  The  descant,  and  the  wind  10 

That  seemed  to  play  with  it  in  love  or  scorn, 

Encouraged  and  endeared  the  strain  of  words 

That  haply  flowed  from  me,  by  fits  of  silence 

Impelled  to  livelier  pace.  But  now,  my  Book! 

Charged  with  those  lays,  and  others  of  like  mood,  15 

Or  loftier  pitch  if  higher  rose  the  theme, 


Go,  single — yet  aspiring  to  be  joined 
With  thy  Forerunners  that  through  many  a  year 
Have  faithfully  prepared  each  other's  way — 
Go  forth  upon  a  mission  best  fulfilled  20 

When  and  wherever,  in  this  changeful  world, 
Power  hath  been  given  to  please  for  higher  ends 
Than  pleasure  only ;  gladdening  to  prepare 
For  wholesome  sadness,  troubling  to  refine, 
Calming  to  raise ;  and,  by  a  sapient  Art  25 

Diffused  through  all  the  mysteries  of  our  Being, 
Softening  the  toils  and  pains  that  have  not  ceased 
To  cast  their  shadows  on  our  mother  Earth 
Since  the  primeval  doom.   Such  is  the  grace 
Which,  though  unsued  for,  fails  not  to  descend  30 

With  heavenly  inspiration ;  such  the  aim 
That  Reason  dictates ;  and,  as  even  the  wish 
Has  virtue  in  it,  why  should  hope  to  me 
Be  wanting  that  sometimes,  where  fancied  ills 
Harass  the  mind  and  strip  from  off  the  bowers  35 

Of  private  life  their  natural  pleasantness, 
A  Voice — devoted  to  the  love  whose  seeds 
Are  sown  in  every  human  breast,  to  beauty 
Lodged  within  compass  of  the  humblest  sight, 
To  cheerful  intercourse  with  wood  and  field,  40 

And  sympathy  with  man's  substantial  griefs — 
Will  not  be  heard  in  vain  ?  And  in  those  days 
When  unforeseen  distress  spreads  far  and  wide 
Among  a  People  mournfully  cast  down, 
Or  into  anger  roused  by  venal  words  45 

In  recklessness  flung  out  to  overturn 
The  judgment,  and  divert  the  general  heart 
From  mutual  good — some  strain  of  thine,  my  Book! 
Caught  at  propitious  intervals,  may  win 
Listeners  who  not  unwillingly  admit  50 

Kindly  emotion  tending  to  console 
And  reconcile ;  and  both  with  young  and  old 
Exalt  the  sense  of  thoughtful  gratitude 
For  benefits  that  still  survive,  by  faith 
In  progress,  under  laws  divine,  maintained.  55 

RYDAL  MOUNT,  March  26,  1842. 

917.17  IV  4  K 



[Composed  1834.— Published  1835.] 
SMALL  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts : 
Of  humblest  Friends,  bright  Creature !  scorn  not  one : 
The  Daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 
Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  Sun. 



[Composed  November  5,  1834.— Published  1835.] 
LADY  !  a  Pen  (perhaps  with  thy  regard, 
Among  the  Favoured,  favoured  not  the  least) 
Left,  'mid  the  Records  of  this  Book  inscribed, 
Deliberate  traces,  registers  of  thought 

And  feeling,  suited  to  the  place  and  time  5 

That  gave  them  birth : — months  passed,  and  still  this  hand, 
That  had  not  been  too  timid  to  imprint 
Words  which  the  virtues  of  thy  Lord  inspired, 
Was  yet  not  bold  enough  to  write  of  Thee. 
And  why  that  scrupulous  reserve  ?  In  sooth  10 

The  blameless  cause  lay  in  the  Theme  itself. 
Flowers  are  there  many  that  delight  to  strive 
With  the  sharp  wind,  and  seem  to  court  the  shower, 
Yet  are  by  nature  careless  of  the  sun 

Whether  he  shine  on  them  or  not ;  and  some,  15 

Where'er  he  moves  along  the  unclouded  sky, 
Turn  a  broad  front  full  on  his  flattering  beams : 
Others  do  rather  frbm  their  notice  shrink, 
Loving  the  dewy  shade, — a  humble  band, 
Modest  and  sweet,  a  progeny  of  earth,  20 

Congenial  with  thy  mind  and  character, 
High-born  Augusta ! 

Witness,  Towers  and  Groves ! 
And  Thou,  wild  Stream,  that  giv'st  the  honoured  name 

XVII.  In  1836  entitled  "Written  in  an  Album";  in  1837-43  "Written  in 
the  Album  of  a  Child"     2  so  1845:  Of  Friends,  however  humble,  1836-43 

XVIII.  COUNTESS  OF  LONSDALE      1837:  COUNTESS  OF 1836  1  Lady, 

erewhile  a  willing  Pen  by  thee  MS. 


Of  Lowther  to  this  ancient  Line,  bear  witness 

From  thy  most  secret  haunts ;  and  ye  Parterres,  25 

Which  She  is  pleased  and  proud  to  call  her  own, 

Witness  how  oft  upon  my  noble  Friend 

Mute  offerings,  tribute  from  an  inward  sense 

Of  admiration  and  respectful  love, 

Have  waited — till  the  affections  could  no  more  30 

Endure  that  silence,  and  broke  out  in  song, 

Snatches  of  music  taken  up  and  dropt 

Like  those  self-solacing,  those  under,  notes 

Trilled  by  the  redbreast,  when  autumnal  leaves 

Are  thin  upon  the  bough.  Mine,  only  mine,  35 

The  pleasure  was,  and  no  one  heard  the  praise, 

Checked,  in  the  moment  of  its  issue,  checked 

And  reprehended,  by  a  fancied  blush 

From  the  pure  qualities  that  called  it  forth. 

Thus  Virtue  lives  debarred  from  Virtue's  meed ;  40 

Thus,  Lady,  is  retiredness  a  veil 

That,  while  it  only  spreads  a  softening  charm 

O'er  features  looked  at  by  discerning  eyes, 

Hides  half  their  beauty  from  the  common  gaze ; 

And  thus,  even  on  the  exposed  and  breezy  hill  45 

Of  lofty  station,  female  goodness  walks, 

When  side  by  side  with  lunar  gentleness, 

As  in  a  cloister.  Yet  the  grateful  Poor 

(Such  the  immunities  of  low  estate, 

Plain  Nature's  enviable  privilege,  50 

Her  sacred  recompence  for  many  wants) 

Open  their  hearts  before  Thee,  pouring  out 

All  that  they  think  and  feel,  with  tears  of  joy ; 

And  benedictions  not  unheard  in  heaven : 

And  friend  in  the  ear  of  friend,  where  speech  is  free  55 

To  follow  truth,  is  eloquent  as  they. 

Then  let  the  Book  receive  in  these  prompt  lines 
A  just  memorial ;  and  thine  eyes  consent 
To  read  that  they,  who  mark  thy  course,  behold 
A  life  declining  with  the  golden  light  60 

Of  summer,  in  the  season  of  sere  leaves ; 

22-4  so  1837:  .  .  .  Towers,  and  stately  Groves 

Bear  witness  for  me ;  thou,  too,  Mountain-stream!     1836 
40  lives  debarred]  is  self-robbed  MS. 


See  cheerfulness  undamped  by  stealing  Time ; 

See  studied  kindness  flow  with  easy  stream, 

Illustrated  with  inborn  courtesy ; 

And  an  habitual  disregard  of  self  65 

Balanced  by  vigilance  for  others'  weal. 

And  shall  the  Verse  not  tell  of  lighter  gifts 
With  these  ennobling  attributes  conjoined 
And  blended,  in  peculiar  harmony, 

By  Youth's  surviving  spirit  ?  What  agile  grace !  70 

A  nymph-like  liberty,  in  nymph-like  form, 
Beheld  with  wonder ;  whether  floor  or  path 
Thou  tread ;  or  sweep — borne  on  the  managed  steed — 
Fleet  as  the  shadows,  over  down  or  field, 
Driven  by  strong  winds  at  play  among  the  clouds.  75 

Yet  one  word  more — one  farewell  word — a  wish 

Which  came,  but  it  has  passed  into  a  prayer — 

That,  as  thy  sun  in  brightness  is  declining, 

So — at  an  hour  yet  distant  for  their  sakes 

Whose  tender  love,  here  faltering  on  the  way  80 

Of  a  diviner  love,  will  be  forgiven — 

So  may  it  set  in  peace,  to  rise  again 

For  everlasting  glory  won  by  faith. 


[Composed  1843.— Privately  printed  1843,  published  1846.] 

AMONG  the  dwellers  in  the  silent  fields 

The  natural  heart  is  touched,  and  public  way 

And  crowded  street  resound  with  ballad  strains, 

Inspired  by  ONE  whose  very  name  bespeaks 

Favour  divine,  exalting  human  love ; 

Whom,  since  her  birth  on  bleak  Northumbria's  coast, 

Known  unto  few  but  prized  as  far  as  known, 

63-5  .  .  .  feelingly  allied 

With  inborn  courtesy ;  in  every  act 
And  habit  utter  disregard  of  Self  MS. 
73  ao  1837:  or  on  the  managed  steed  art  borne  MS.,  1835 
79-83  God's  favour  still  vouchsafed,  so  may  it  set — 
And  be  the  hour  yet  distant  for  our  sakes — 
To  rise  again  in  glory  won  by  Faith  MS. 


A  single  Act  endears  to  high  and  low 

Through  the  whole  land — to  Manhood,  moved  in  spite 

Of  the  world's  freezing  cares — to  generous  Youth —  10 

To  Infancy,  that  lisps  her  praise — to  Age 

Whose  eye  reflects  it,  glistening  through  a  tear 

Of  tremulous  admiration.  Such  true  fame 

Awaits  her  now;  but,  verily,  good  deeds 

Do  no  imperishable  record  find  15 

Save  in  the  rolls  of  heaven,  where  hers  may  live 

A  theme  for  angels,  when  they  celebrate 

The  high-souled  virtues  which  forgetful  earth 

Has  witness'd.   Oh !  that  winds  and  waves  could  speak 

Of  things  which  their  united  power  called  forth  20 

Prom  the  pure  depths  of  her  humanity ! 

A  Maiden  gentle,  yet,  at  duty's  call, 

Firm  and  unflinching,  as  the  Lighthouse  reared 

On  the  Island-rock,  her  lonely  dwelling-place ; 

Or  like  the  invincible  Rock  itself  that  braves,  25 

Age  after  age,  the  hostile  elements, 

As  when  it  guarded  holy  Cuthbert's  cell. 

All  night  the  storm  had  raged,  nor  ceased,  nor  paused, 
When,  as  day  broke,  the  Maid,  through  misty  air, 
Espies  far  off  a  Wreck,  amid  the  surf,  30 

Beating  on  one  of  those  disastrous  isles — 
Half  of  a  Vessel,  half — no  more ;  the  rest 
Had  vanished,  swallowed  up  with  all  that  there 
Had  for  the  common  safety  striven  in  vain, 
Or  thither  thronged  for  refuge.  With  quick  glance  35 

Daughter  and  Sire  through  optic-glass  discern, 
Clinging  about  the  remnant  of  this  Ship, 
Creatures — how  precious  in  the  Maiden's  sight ! 
For  whom,  belike,  the  old  Man  grieves  still  more 
Than  for  their  fellow-sufferers  engulfed  40 

Where  every  parting  agony  is  hushed, 
And  hope  and  fear  mix  not  in  further  strife, 
"But  courage,  Father!  let  us  out  to  sea — 
A  few  may  yet  be  saved."  The  Daughter's  words, 
Her  earnest  tone,  and  look  beaming  with  faith,  45 

Dispel  the  Father's  doubts :  nor  do  they  lack 
The  noble-minded  Mother's  helping  hand 

XIX  11  to]  and     1843 


To  launch  the  boat ;  and  with  her  blessing  cheered, 

And  inwardly  sustained  by  silent  prayer, 

Together  they  put  forth,  Father  and  Child !  5° 

Each  grasps  an  oar,  and  struggling  on  they  go — 

Rivals  in  effort ;  and,  alike  intent 

Here  to  elude  and  there  surmount,  they  watch 

The  billows  lengthening,  mutually  crossed 

And  shattered,  and  re-gathering  their  might ;  55 

As  if  the  tumult,  by  the  Almighty's  will 

Were,  in  the  conscious  sea,  roused  and  prolonged 

That  woman's  fortitude — so  tried,  so  proved — 

May  brighten  more  and  more ! 

True  to  the  mark, 

They  stem  the  current  of  that  perilous  gorge,  60 

Their  arms  still  strengthening  with  the  strengthening  heart, 
Though  danger,  as  the  Wreck  is  near'd,  becomes 
More  imminent.   Not  unseen  do  they  approach  ; 
And  rapture,  with  varieties  of  fear 

Incessantly  conflicting,  thrills  the  frames  65 

Of  those  who,  in  that  dauntless  energy, 
Foretaste  deliverance ;  but  the  least  perturbed 
Can  scarcely  trust  his  eyes,  when  he  perceives 
That  of  the  pair — tossed  on  the  waves  to  bring 
Hope  to  the  hopeless,  to  the  dying,  life —  70 

One  is  a  Woman,  a  poor  earthly  sister, 
Or,  be  the  Visitant  other  than  she  seems, 
A  guardian  Spirit  sent  from  pitying  Heaven, 
In  woman's  shape.   But  why  prolong  the  tale, 
Casting  weak  words  amid  a  host  of  thoughts  75 

Armed  to  repel  them  ?  Every  hazard  faced 
And  difficulty  mastered,  with  resolve 
That  no  one  breathing  should  be  left  to  perish, 
This  last  remainder  of  the  crew  are  all 

Placed  in  the  little  boat,  then  o'er  the  deep  80 

Are  safely  borne,  landed  upon  the  beach, 
And,  in  fulfilment  of  God's  mercy,  lodged 
Within  the  sheltering  Lighthouse. — Shout,  ye  Waves ! 
Send  forth  a  song  of  triumph.  Waves  and  Winds, 

66-7  As  if  the  wrath  and  trouble  of  the  sea 

Were  by  the  Almighty's  sufferance  prolonged,     1843 
84  Pipe  a  glad  song  of  triumph,  ye  fierce  Winds!     1843 


Exult  in  this  deliverance  wrought  through  faith  85 

In  Him  whose  Providence  your  rage  hath  served ! 

Ye  screaming  Sea-mews,  in  the  concert  join ! 

And  would  that  some  immortal  Voice — a  Voice 

Fitly  attuned  to  all  that  gratitude 

Breathes  out  from  floor  or  couch,  through  pallid  lips      90 

Of  the  survivors — to  the  clouds  might  bear — 

Blended  with  praise  of  that  parental  love, 

Beneath  whose  watchful  eye  the  Maiden  grew 

Pious  and  pure,  modest  and  yet  so  brave, 

Though  young  so  wise,  though  meek  so  resolute —  95 

Might  carry  to  the  clouds  and  to  the  stars, 

Yea,  to  celestial  Choirs,  GRACE  DARLING'S  name! 



[Composed  1828. — Published  1835.] 

ENOUGH  of  rose-bud  lips,  and  eyes 

Like  harebells  bathed  in  dew, 
Of  cheek  that  with  carnation  vies, 

And  veins  of  violet  hue ; 
Earth  wants  not  beauty  that  may  scorn  5 

A  likening  to  frail  flowers ; 
Yea,  to  the  stars,  if  they  were  born 

For  seasons  and  for  hours. 

Through  Moscow's  gates,  with  gold  unbarred, 

Stepped  One  at  dead  of  night,  10 

Whom  such  high  beauty  could  not  guard 

From  meditated  blight ; 
By  stealth  she  passed,  and  fled  as  fast 

As  doth  the  hunted  fawn, 
Nor  stopped,  till  in  the  dappling  east  15 

Appeared  unwelcome  dawn. 

86-6  not  in  priv.  printed  ed.  1843 

XX.  THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE:  Ina,  or  The  Lodge  in  the  Forest,  A 
Russian  Tale  MS. 
*5-8  Earth  lacks  not  beauty  that  will  bear 

No  etc. 
More  lofty  is  its  character 

More  lasting  are  its  powers.  MS* 


Seven  days  she  lurked  in  brake  and  field, 

Seven  nights  her  course  renewed, 
Sustained  by  what  her  scrip  might  yield, 

Or  berries  of  the  wood ;  20 

At  length,  in  darkness  travelling  on, 

When  lowly  doors  were  shut, 
The  haven  of  her  hope  she  won, 

Her  Poster-mother's  hut. 

"To  put  your  love  to  dangerous  proof  25 

I  come,"  said  she,  "from  far ; 
For  I  have  left  my  Father's  roof, 

In  terror  of  the  Czar." 
No  answer  did  the  Matron  give, 

No  second  look  she  cast,  3° 

But  hung  upon  the  Fugitive, 

Embracing  and  embraced. 

She  led  the  Lady  to  a  seat 

Beside  the  glimmering  fire, 
Bathed  duteously  her  wayworn  feet,  35 

Prevented  each  desire : — 
The  cricket  chirped,  the  house-dog  dozed, 

And  on  that  simple  bed, 
Where  she  in  childhood  had  reposed, 

Now  rests  her  weary  head.  40 

When  she,  whose  couch  had  been  the  sod, 

Whose  curtain  pine  or  thorn, 
Had  breathed  a  sigh  of  thanks  to  God, 

Who  comforts  the  forlorn ; 
While  over  her  the  Matron  bent  45 

Sleep  sealed^  her  eyes,  and  stole 
Feeling  from  limbs  with  travel  spent, 

And  trouble  from  the  soul. 

Refreshed,  the  Wanderer  rose  at  morn, 

And  soon  again  was  dight  50 

In  those  unworthy  vestments  worn 

Through  long  and  perilous  flight ; 

30  caat;    1835         31  But]    1837:  She    1835         33  the]    1837:  her    1835 
45-8  Upon  her  lids  with  travel  spent 

Sleep  dropped,  and  gently  stole 
(While  o'er  her  head  the  Matron  bent) 

Into  her  dreamless  soul.  MS. 


And  "0  beloved  Nurse,"  she  said, 

"My  thanks  with  silent  tears 
Have  unto  Heaven  and  You  been  paid :  55 

Now  listen  to  my  fears ! 

"Have  you  forgot" — and  here  she  smiled — 

"The  babbling  flatteries 
You  lavished  on  me  when  a  child 

Disporting  round  your  knees  ?  60 

I  was  your  lambkin,  and  your  bird, 

Your  star,  your  gem,  your  flower ; 
Light  words,  that  were  more  lightly  heard 

In  many  a  cloudless  hour ! 

"The  blossom  you  so  fondly  praised  65 

Is  come  to  bitter  fruit ; 
A  mighty  One  upon  me  gazed ; 

I  spurned  his  lawless  suit, 
And  must  be  hidden  from  his  wrath : 

You,  Foster-father  dear,  70 

Will  guide  me  in  my  forward  path ; 

I  may  not  tarry  here ! 

"I  cannot  bring  to  utter  woe 

Your  proved  fidelity." — 
"Dear  child,  sweet  Mistress,  say  not  so!  75 

For  you  we  both  would  die." 
"Nay,  nay,  I  come  with  semblance  feigned 

And  cheek  embrowned  by  art ; 
Yet,  being  inwardly  unstained, 

With  courage  will  depart."  80 

"But  whither  would  you,  could  you,  flee  ? 

A  poor  Man's  counsel  take ; 
The  Holy  Virgin  gives  to  me 

A  thought  for  your  dear  sake ; 
Rest,  shielded  by  our  Lady's  grace,  85 

And  soon  shall  you  be  led 
Forth  to  a  safe  abiding-place, 

Where  never  foot  doth  tread." 

73-88  not  in  MS. 



THE  dwelling  of  this  faithful  pair 

In  a  straggling  village  stood,  90 

For  One  who  breathed  unquiet  air 

A  dangerous  neighbourhood ; 
But  wide  around  lay  forest  ground 

With  thickets  rough  and  blind ; 
And  pine-trees  made  a  heavy  shade  95 

Impervious  to  the  wind. 

And  there,  sequestered  from  the  sight, 

Was  spread  a  treacherous  swamp, 
On  which  the  noonday  sun  shed  light 

As  from  a  lonely  lamp ;  100 

And  midway  in  the  unsafe  morass, 

A  single  Island  rose 
Of  firm  dry  ground,  with  healthful  grass 

Adorned,  and  shady  boughs. 

The  Woodman  knew,  for  such  the  craft  105 

This  Russian  vassal  plied, 
That  never  fowler's  gun,  nor  shaft 

Of  archer,  there  was  tried ; 
A  sanctuary  seemed  the  spot 

From  all  intrusion  free ;  no 

And  there  he  planned  an  artful  Cot 

For  perfect  secrecy. 

With  earnest  pains  unchecked  by  dread 

Of  Power's  Jar-stretching  hand, 
The  bold  good  Man  his  labour  sped  115 

At  Nature's  pure  command ; 
Heart-soothed,  and  busy  as  a  wren, 

While,  in  a  hollow  nook, 
She  moulds  her  sight-eluding  den 

Above  a  murmuring  brook.  120 

93  lay]  was  MS.         101  And  out  of  one  a  broad  morass,  109-10  That 

no  one  ventured  to  the  spot    Belike  from  age  to  age  MS.  Ill  an 

artful]  a  sylvan  MS.           112  A  lurking  Hermitage.  MS*  113  With 
tender  care  MS. 


His  task  accomplished  to  his  mind, 

The  twain  ere  break  of  day 
Creep  forth,  and  through  the  forest  wind 

Their  solitary  way ; 
Few  words  they  speak,  nor  dare  to  slack  125 

Their  pace  from  mile  to  mile, 
Till  they  have  crossed  the  quaking  marsh, 

And  reached  the  lonely  Isle. 
The  sun  above  the  pine-trees  showed 

A  bright  and  cheerful  face ;  130 

And  Ina  looked  for  her  abode, 

The  promised  hiding-place ; 
She  sought  in  vain,  the  Woodman  smiled ; 

No  threshold  could  be  seen, 
Nor  roof,  nor  window ; — all  seemed  wild  135 

As  it  had  ever  been. 
Advancing,  you  might  guess  an  hour, 

The  front  with  such  nice  care 
Is  masked,  "if  house  it  be  or  bower/' 

But  in  they  entered  are ;  140 

As  shaggy  as  were  wall  and  roof 

With  branches  intertwined, 
So  smooth  was  all  within,  air-proof, 

And  delicately  lined : 

And  hearth  was  there,  and  maple  dish,  145 

And  cups  in  seemly  rows, 
And  couch — all  ready  to  a  wish 

For  nurture  or  repose ; 
And  Heaven  doth  to  her  virtue  grant 

That  there  she  may  abide  150 

In  solitude,  with  every  want 

By  cautious  love  supplied. 
No  queen  before  a  shouting  crowd 

Led  on  in  bridal  state, 
E'er  struggled  with  a  heart  so  proud,  155 

Entering  her  palace  gate ; 

121  When  all  was  finished  MS.          122  The  twain]  Abroad  MS.          123 
They  thro'  the  houseless  MS. 
137-9  Approaching  etc. 

So  nice  the  builder's  care 
Whether  it  were  a  house  or  bower  MS. 
150  there     1850:  here     1835-45  154  bridal]  pride  and  MS. 


Rejoiced  to  bid  the  world  farewell, 

No  saintly  anchoress 
E'er  took  possession  of  her  cell 

With  deeper  thankfulness.  160 

"Father  of  all,  upon  thy  care 
v     And  mercy  am  I  thrown ; 
Be  thou  my  safeguard!'' — such  her  prayer 

When  she  was  left  alone, 
Kneeling  amid  the  wilderness  165 

When  joy  had  passed  away, 
And  smiles,  fond  efforts  of  distress 

To  hide  what  they  betray ! 

The  prayer  is  heard,  the  Saints  have  seen, 

Diffused  through  form  and  face,  170 

Resolves  devotedly  serene ; 

That  monumental  grace 
Of  Faith,  which  doth  all  passions  tame 

That  Reason  should  control ; 
And  shows  in  the  untrembling  frame  175 

A  statue  of  the  soul. 

'Tis  sung  in  ancient  minstrelsy 

That  Phoebus  wont  to  wear 
The  leaves  of  any  pleasant  tree 

Around  his  golden  hair ;  180 

Till  Daphne,  desperate  with  pursuit 

Of  his  imperious  love, 
At  her  own  prayer  transformed,  took  root, 

A  laurel  in  the  grove. 

Then  did  the"  Penitent  adorn  185 

His  brow  with  laurel  green ; 
And  'mid  his  bright  locks  never  shorn 

No  meaner  leaf  was  seen ; 
And  poets  sage,  through  every  age, 

About  their  temples  wound  190 

The  bay ;  and  conquerors  thanked  the  Gods, 

With  laurel  chaplets  crowned. 

167-8  .  .  the  sunshine  of  distress, 

That  hide,  yet  more  betray  MS. 

172-3  Exalting  lowly  grace,  A  Faith  MS.  181  flying  from  the  suit 



Into  the  mists  of  fabling  Time 

So  far  runs  back  the  praise 
Of  Beauty,  that  disdains  to  climb  195 

Along  forbidden  ways ; 
That  scorns  temptation ;  power  defies 

Where  mutual  love  is  not ; 
And  to  the  tomb  for  rescue  flies 

When  life  would  be  a  blot.  200 

To  this  fair  Votaress  a  fate 

More  mild  doth  Heaven  ordain 
Upon  her  Island  desolate ; 

And  words,  not  breathed  in  vain, 
Might  tell  what  intercourse  she  found,  205 

Her  silence  to  endear ; 
What  birds  she  tamed,  what  flowers  the  ground 

Sent  forth  her  peace  to  cheer. 

To  one  mute  Presence,  above  all, 

Her  soothed  affections  clung,  210 

A  picture  on  the  cabin  wall 

By  Russian  usage  hung — 
The  Mother-maid,  whose  countenance  bright 

With  love  abridged  the  day ; 
And,  communed  with  by  taper  light,  215 

Chased  spectral  fears  away. 

And  oft,  as  either  Guardian  came, 

The  joy  in  that  retreat 
Might  any  common  friendship  shame, 

So  high  their  hearts  would  beat ;  220 

And  to  the  lone  Recluse,  whate'er 

They  brought,  each  visiting 
Was  like  the  crowding  of  the  year 

With  a  new  burst  of  spring. 

But,  when  she  of  her  Parents  thought,  225 

The  pang  was  hard  to  bear ; 
And,  if  with  all  things  not  enwrought, 

That  trouble  still  is  near. 

204-5      Nor  were  it  labor  vain 

To  tell  what  company  MS. 
209-16  not  in  MS. 


Before  her  flight  she  had  not  dared 

Their  constancy  to  prove,  230 

Too  much  the  heroic  Daughter  feared 

The  weakness  of  their  love. 

Dark  is  the  past  to  them,  and  dark 

The  future  still  must  be, 
Till  pitying  Saints  conduct  her  bark  235 

Into  a  safer  sea — 
Or  gentle  Nature  close  her  eyes, 

And  set  her  Spirit  free 
From  the  altar  of  this  sacrifice, 

In  vestal  purity.  240 

Yet,  when  above  the  forest-glooms 

The  white  swans  southward  passed, 
High  as  the  pitch  of  their  swift  plumes 

Her  fancy  rode  the  blast ; 
And  bore  her  toward  the  fields  of  France,  245 

Her  Father's  native  land, 
To  mingle  in  the  rustic  dance, 

The  happiest  of  the  band ! 

Of  those  beloved  fields  she  oft 

Had  heard  her  Father  tell  250 

In  phrase  that  now  with  echoes  soft 

Haunted  her  lonely  cell ; 
She  saw  the  hereditary  bowers, 

She  heard  the  ancestral  stream ; 
The  Kremlin  and  its  haughty  towers  255 

Forgotten  like  a  dream ! 


THE  ever- changing  Moon  had  traced 

Twelve  times  her  monthly  round, 
When  through  the  unfrequented  Waste 

Was  heard  a  startling  sound ;  260 

A  shout  thrice  sent  from  one  who  chased 

At  speed  a  wounded  deer, 
Bounding  through  branches  interlaced, 

And  where  the  wood  was  clear. 

245  tow'rd     1835  fields]  groves  MS. 


The  fainting  creature  took  the  marsh,  265 

And  toward  the  Island  fled, 
While  plovers  screamed  with  tumult  harsh 

Above  his  antlered  head ; 
This,  Ina  saw ;  and,  pale  with  fear, 

Shrunk  to  her  citadel ;  270 

The  desperate  deer  rushed  on,  and  near 

The  tangled  covert  fell. 

Across  the  marsh,  the  game  in  view, 

The  Hunter  followed  fast, 
Nor  paused,  till  o'er  the  stag  he  blew  275 

A  death-proclaiming  blast ; 
Then,  resting  on  her  upright  mind, 

Came  forth  the  Maid — "In  me 
Behold/'  she  said,  "a  stricken  Hind 

Pursued  by  destiny!  280 

"From  your  deportment,  Sir!  I  deem 

That  you  have  worn  a  sword, 
And  will  not  hold  in  light  esteem 

A  suffering  woman's  word ; 
There  is  my  covert,  there  perchance  285 

I  might  have  lain  concealed, 
My  fortunes  hid,  my  countenance 

Not  even  to  you  revealed. 

"Tears  might  be  shed,  and  I  might  pray, 

Crouching  and  terrified,  290 

That  what  has  been  unveiled  to-day, 

You  would  in  mystery  hide ; 
But  I  will  not  defile  with  dust 

The  knee  that  bends  to  adore 
The  God  in  heaven ; — attend,  be  just ;  295 

This  ask  I,  and  no  more ! 

"I  speak  not  of  the  winter's  cold 

For  summer's  heat  exchanged, 
While  I  have  lodged  in  this  rough  hold, 

From  social  life  estranged ;  300 

269-70  Affrighted  Ina  saw  and  heard 

And  shrank  into  her  cell:  MS. 

272  To  her  dark  threshold  fell  MS.  280  by  evil  destiny  MS.         282 

worn]  borne  MS. 


Nor  yet  of  trouble  and  alarms : 

High  Heaven  is  my  defence ; 
And  every  season  has  soft  arms 

For  injured  Innocence. 

"From  Moscow  to  the  Wilderness  305 

It  was  my  choice  to  come, 
Lest  virtue  should  be  harbourless, 

And  honour  want  a  home ; 
And  happy  were  I,  if  the  Czar 

Retain  his  lawless  will,  31° 

To  end  life  here  like  this  poor  deer, 

Or  a  lamb  on  a  green  hill." 

"Are  you  the  Maid/'  the  Stranger  cried, 

"From  Gallic  parents  sprung, 
Whose  vanishing  was  rumoured  wide,  3*5 

Sad  theme  for  every  tongue  ; 
Who  foiled  an  Emperor's  eager  quest  ? 

You,  Lady,  forced  to  wear 
These  rude  habiliments,  and  rest 

Your  head  in  this  dark  lair!"  320 

But  wonder,  pity,  soon  were  quelled ; 

And  in  her  face  and  mien 
The  soul's  pure  brightness  he  beheld 

Without  a  veil  between  : 
He  loved,  he  hoped, — a  holy  flame  325 

Kindled  'mid  rapturous  tears ; 
The  passion  of  a  moment  came 

As  on  the  wings  of  years. 

"Such  bounty  is  no  gift  of  chance," 

Exclaimed  he:  "righteous  Heaven,  33° 

Preparing  your  deliverance, 

To  me  the  charge  hath  given. 
The  Czar  full  oft  in  words  and  deeds 

Is  stormy  and  self-willed ; 
But,  when  the  Lady  Catherine  pleads,  335 

His  violence  is  stilled. 

317—20  You,  Lady,  in  those  humble  weeds 

Disguised,  and  here  so  long 
Hovel'd  under  heath  and  reeds 

The  barren  trees  among  ?"  MS. 


"Leave  open  to  my  wish  the  course, 

And  I  to  her  will  go ; 
From  that  humane  and  heavenly  source 

Good,  only  good,  can  flow."  34° 

Faint  sanction  given,  the  Cavalier 

Was  eager  to  depart, 
Though  question  followed  question,  dear 

To  the  Maiden's  filial  heart. 

Light  was  his  step, — his  hopes,  more  light,  345 

Kept  pace  with  his  desires ; 
And  the  fifth  morning  gave  him  sight 

Of  Moscow's  glittering  spires. 
He  sued : — heart-smitten  by  the  wrong, 

To  the  lorn  Fugitive  35° 

The  Emperor  sent  a  pledge  as  strong 

As  sovereign  power  could  give. 

O  more  than  mighty  change !  If  e'er 

Amazement  rose  to  pain, 
And  joy's  excess  produced  a  fear  355 

Of  something  void  and  vain ; 
'Twas  when  the  Parents,  who  had  mourned 

So  long  the  lost  as  dead, 
Beheld  their  only  Child  returned 

The  household  floor  to  tread.  360 

Soon  gratitude  gave  way  to  love 

Within  the  Maiden's  breast ; 
Delivered  and  Deliverer  move 

In  bridal  garments  drest ; 
Meek  Catherine  had  her  own  reward ;  365 

The  Czar  bestowed  a  dower ; 
And  universal  Moscow  shared 

The  triumph  of  that  hour. 

337—8  Her  will  I  seek — along  my  course 

In  confidence  I  go   MS. 
341-4  This  said,  the  gallant  Cavalier 

Withdrew,  ere  full  reply 
Was  made  to  crowding  questions,  dear 

To  filial  piety.  MS. 

347  fifth]  third  MS.  and  1835        348  glittering]  golden    MS.       355  joy's 
excess]  overjoy  MS.  and  1835 

917.17  IV  O 


Flowers  strewed  the  ground ;  the  nuptial  feast 

Was  held  with  costly  state ;  370 

And  there,  'mid  many  a  noble  guest, 

The  Foster-parents  sate ; 
Encouraged  by  the  imperial  eye, 

They  shrank  not  into  shade ; 
Great  was  their  bliss,  the  honour  high  375 

To  them  and  nature  paid ! 

369-72  Faith  rules  the  song,  nor  deem  it  care 

Too  humble  to  relate 
That  at  the  Spousal  feast  the  Pair 
Of  rustic  Guardians  sate.  MS. 




[Composed  1811. — Published  1815.] 

THE  embowering  rose,  the  acacia,  and  the  pine, 

Will  not  unwillingly  their  place  resign ; 

If  but  the  Cedar  thrive  that  near  them  stands, 

Planted  by  Beaumont's  and  by  Wordsworth's  hands. 

One  wooed  the  silent  Art  with  studious  pains :  5 

These  groves  have  heard  the  Other's  pensive  strains ; 

Devoted  thus,  their  spirits  did  unite 

By  interchange  of  knowledge  and  delight. 

May  Nature's  kindliest  powers  sustain  the  Tree, 

And  Love  protect  it  from  all  injury !  10 

And  when  its  potent  branches,  wide  out-thrown, 

Darken  the  brow  of  this  memorial  Stone, 

Here  may  some  Painter  sit  in  future  days, 

Some  future  Poet  meditate  his  lays ; 

Not  mindless  of  that  distant  age  renowned  15 

When  Inspiration  hovered  o'er  this  ground, 

The  haunt  of  him  who  sang  how  spear  and  shield 

In  civil  conflict  met  on  Bosworth-field ; 

And  of  that  famous  Youth,  full  soon  removed 

From  earth,  perhaps  by  Shakespeare's  self  approved,      20 

Fletcher's  Associate,  Jonson's  Friend  beloved. 


[Composed  1811. — Published  1815.] 

OFT  is  the  medal  faithful  to  its  trust 

When  temples,  columns,  towers,  are  laid  in  dust ; 

And  'tis  a  common  ordinance  of  fate 

That  things  obscure  and  small  outlive  the  great  : 

Hence,  when  yon  mansion  and  the  flowery  trim  5 

Of  this  fair  garden,  and  its  alleys  dim, 

I.  12/13  And  to  a  favorite  Resting-place  invite, 

For  coolness  grateful  and  a  sober  light;   MS.,  ] 81 5-20 
20  perhaps  by]  by  mighty  MS. 


And  all  its  stately  trees,  are  passed  away, 

This  little  Niche,  unconscious  of  decay, 

Perchance  may  still  survive.  And  be  it  known 

That  it  was  scooped  within  the  living  stone, —  10 

Not  by  the  sluggish  and  ungrateful  pains 

Of  labourer  plodding  for  his  daily  gains, 

But  by  an  industry  that  wrought  in  love ; 

With  help  from  female  hands,  that  proudly  strove 

To  aid  the  work,  what  time  these  walks  and  bowers        15 

Were  shaped  to  cheer  dark  winter's  lonely  hours. 





[Composed  November,  1811. — Published  1815.] 

YE  Lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed  Urn, 

Shoot  forth  with  lively  power  at  Spring's  return ; 

And  be  not  slow  a  stately  growth  to  rear 

Of  pillars,  branching  off  from  year  to  year, 

Till  they  have  learned  to  frame  a  darksome  aisle ; —         5 

That  may  recal  to  mind  that  awful  Pile 

Where  Reynolds,  'mid  our  country's  noblest  dead, 

In  the  last  sanctity  of  fame  is  laid. 

— There,  though  by  right  the  excelling  Painter  sleep 

Where  Death  and  Glory  a  joint  sabbath  keep,  10 

Yet  not  the  less  his  Spirit  would  hold  dear 

Self-hidden  praise,  and  Friendship's  private  tear : 

Hence,  on  my  patrimonial  grounds,  have  I 

II.  10  scooped  within]  fashioned  in     MS. 

13-14  But  by  prompt  hands  of  Pleasure  and  of  Love 
Female  and  Male,  that  emulously  strove  MS. 
15-16  aid  .  .  .  shaped     1827:  shape  .  .  .  framed  MS.,  1816-20 

III.  1  before]  around   MS. 

4-7  Bending  your  docile  boughs  from  year  to  year 
Till  in  a  solemn  concave  they  unite, 
Like  that  Cathedral  Dome  beneath  whose  height 
Reynolds  among  our  Country's  noble  Dead  MS. 

5  Till  they  at  length  have  framed     1815 

6-6  Till  ye  have  framed  at  length  .  .  . 

Like  a  Recess  within  that  sacred  Pile  MS. 

13-14  my  native  grounds,  unblamed,  may  I 
Raise  MS. 

13—16  Hence  an  obscure  Memorial,  without  blame 

In  these  domestic  grounds,  may  bear  his  Name ; 


Raised  this  frail  tribute  to  his  memory ; 

From  youth  a  zealous  follower  of  the  Art  15 

That  he  professed ;  attached  to  him  in  heart ; 

Admiring,  loving,  and  with  grief  and  pride 

Feeling  what  England  lost  when  Reynolds  died. 


[Composed  November  19,  1811. — Published  1815.] 

BENEATH  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy  bound, 

Rugged  and  high,  of  Charnwood's  forest  ground, 

Stand  yet,  but,  Stranger !  hidden  from  thy  view, 

The  ivied  Ruins  of  forlorn  GBACE  DIEIJ  ; 

Erst  a  religious  House,  which  day  and  night  5 

With  hymns  resounded,  and  the  chanted  rite : 

And  when  those  rites  had  ceased,  the  Spot  gave  birth 

To  honourable  Men  of  various  worth : 

There,  on  the  margin  of  a  streamlet  wild, 

Did  Francis  Beaumont  sport,  an  eager  child ;  10 

There,  under  shadow  of  the  neighbouring  rocks, 

Sang  youthful  tales  of  shepherds  and  their  flocks ; 

Unconscious  prelude  to  heroic  themes, 

Heart-breaking  tears,  and  melancholy  dreams 

Of  slighted  love,  and  scorn,  and  jealous  rage,  15 

With  which  his  genius  shook  the  buskined  stage. 

Communities  are  lost,  and  Empires  die, 

And  things  of  holy  use  unhallowed  lie ; 

They  perish ; — but  the  Intellect  can  raise, 

From  airy  words  alone,  a  Pile  that  ne'er  decays.  20 

Unblamed  this  votive  Urn  may  oft  renew 
Some  mild  sensations  to  his  Genius  due 
From  One,  a  humble  follower  of  the  Art  MS. 
IV.  7-8  But  when  the  formal  Mass  had  long  been  stilled 
And  wise  and  mighty  changes  were  fulfilled, 
That  Ground  gave  birth  to  Men  of  various  Parts 
For  knightly  services  and  liberal  Arts ;  MS. 

16  genius  shook]  skill  inspired  MS.  19  But  Truth  and  Intellectual 

Power  MS. 


'   V 


[Composed  1800. — Published  1800.] 

RUDE  is  this  Edifice,  and  Thou  hast  seen 

Buildings,  albeit  rude,  that  have  maintained 

Proportions  more  harmonious,  and  approached 

To  closer  fellowship  with  ideal  grace. 

But  take  it  in  good  part : — alas !  the  poor  5 

Vitruvius  of  our  village  had  no  help 

From  the  great  City ;  never,  upon  leaves 

Of  red  Morocco  folio  saw  displayed, 

In  long  succession,  pre-existing  ghosts 

Of  Beauties  yet  unborn — the  rustic  Lodge  10 

Antique,  and  Cottage  with  verandah  graced, 

Nor  lacking,  for  fit  company,  alcove, 

Green-house,  shell-grot,  and  moss-lined  hermitage. 

Thou  see'st  a  homely  Pile,  yet  to  these  walls 

The  heifer  comes  in  the  snow-storm,  and  here  15 

The  new-dropped  lamb  finds  shelter  from  the  wind. 

And  hither  does  one  Poet  sometimes  row 

His  pinnace,  a  small  vagrant  barge,  up-piled 

With  plenteous  store  of  heath  and  withered  fern, 

(A  lading  which  he  with  his  sickle  cuts,  20 

Among  the  mountains)  and  beneath  this  roof 

He  makes  his  summer  couch,  and  here  at  noon 

Spreads  out  his  limbs,  while,  yet  unshorn,  the  Sheep, 

Panting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  wool, 

Lie  round  him,  even  as  if  they  were  a  part  25 

Of  his  own  Household :  nor,  while  from  his  bed 

He  looks,  through  the  open  door-place,  toward  the  lake 

And  to  the  stirring  breezes,  does  he  want 

Creations  lovely  as  the  work  of  sleep — 

Fair  sights,  and  visions  of  romantic  joy!  30 

V.    WRITTEN    ETC.    1816:    INSCRIPTION    FOR    THE    HOUSE    ETC.     1800:    LINES 
WRITTEN  ETC.  1802-5 

4-5  so  1837:  To  somewhat  of  a  closer  fellowship 

With  the  ideal  grace.  Yet  as  it  is 

Dotakeit  in  good  part,  for  he  [alas !  1815-32]  the  poor  1800-32 
7  upon  1837:  on  the  1800-32  9  so  1837:  The  skeletons  and  1800-32 
10-13  so  1837:  ...  the  rustic  Box, 

Snug  cot,  with  Coach-house,  Shed  and  Hermitage.  1800-32 
14  Thou  seest  1815:  It  is  1800-5  27  so  1837:  He  through  that  door- 
place  looks  1800-32 




[Composed  1813.— Published  1815.] 

STAY,  bold  Adventurer ;  rest  awhile  thy  limbs 

On  this  commodious  Seat !  for  much  remains 

Of  hard  ascent  before  thou  reach  the  top 

Of  this  huge  Eminence, — from  blackness  named, 

And,  to  far-travelled  storms  of  sea  and  land,  5 

A  favourite  spot  of  tournament  and  war ! 

But  thee  may  no  such  boisterous  visitants 

Molest ;  may  gentle  breezes  fan  thy  brow ; 

And  neither  cloud  conceal,  nor  misty  air 

Bedim,  the  grand  terraqueous  spectacle,  10 

From  centre  to  circumference,  unveiled ! 

Know,  if  thou  grudge  not  to  prolong  thy  rest, 

That  on  the  summit  whither  thou  art  bound, 

A  geographic  Labourer  pitched  his  tent, 

With  books  supplied  and  instruments  of  art,  15 

To  measure  height  and  distance ;  lonely  task, 

Week  after  week  pursued ! — To  him  was  given 

Full  many  a  glimpse  (but  sparingly  bestowed 

On  timid  man)  of  Nature's  processes 

Upon  the  exalted  hills.   He  made  report  20 

That  once,  while  there  he  plied  his  studious  work 

Within  that  canvass  Dwelling,  colours,  lines, 

And  the  whole  surface  of  the  out-spread  map, 

Became  invisible :  for  all  around 

Had  darkness  fallen — unthreatened,  unproclaimed —       25 

As  if  the  golden  day  itself  had  been 

Extinguished  in  a  moment ;  total  gloom, 

In  which  he  sate  alone,  with  unclosed  eyes, 

Upon  the  blinded  mountain's  silent  top ! 

VI.  1-4  Glad  welcome  bold  Adventurer !  who  at  length 
By  patient  or  impatient  toil  hast  clomb 
This  speculative  Mount ;   MS. 
7-13  But  thee  may  no  such  visitants  disturb 

May  calm  transpicuous  air  reward  thy  [         ] 

And  cloud  and  haze  and  vapour  be  removed 

From  the  terrestrial  Vision.   On  the  crown 

Of  this  bare  Eminence  where  now  thou  standst  MS.  1 
12-13  Know  that  upon  the  Summit  where  thou  stand'st  MS.  22-3 

so  1837:  suddenly  The  many  coloured  Map  before  his  eyes     1816-32.  so 
MS.,  but  sight  for  eyes         29  mountain's]  region's  MS. 




[Composed  1800.— Published  1800.] 

STRANGER  !  this  hillock  of  mis-shapen  stones 

Is  not  a  Ruin  spared  or  made  by  time, 

Nor,  as  perchance  thou  rashly  deem'st,  the  Cairn 

Of  some  old  British  Chief:  'tis  nothing  more 

Than  the  rude  embryo  of  a  little  Dome  5 

Or  Pleasure-house,  once  destined  to  be  built 

Among  the  birch-trees  of  this  rocky  isle. 

But,  as  it  chanced,  Sir  William  having  learned 

That  from  the  shore  a  full-grown  man  might  wade, 

And  make  himself  a  freeman  of  this  spot  10 

At  any  hour  he  chose,  the  prudent  Knight 

Desisted  and  the  quarry  and  the  mound 

Are  monuments  of  his  unfinished  task. 

The  block  on  which  these  lines  are  traced,  perhaps, 

Was  once  selected  as  the  corner-stone  15 

Of  that  intended  Pile,  which  would  have  been 

Some  quaint  odd  plaything  of  elaborate  skill, 

So  that,  I  guess,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush, 

And  other  little  builders  who  dwell  here, 

Had  wondered  at  the  work.   But  blame  him  not,  20 

For  old  Sir  William  was  a  gentle  Knight, 

Bred  in  this  vale,  to  which  he  appertained 

With  all  his  ancestry.   Then  peace  to  him, 

And  for  the  outrage  which  he  had  devised 

Entire  forgiveness ! — But  if  thou  art  one  25 

On  fire  with  thy  impatience  to  become 

An  inmate  of  these  mountains, — if,  disturbed 

By  beautiful  conceptions,  thou  has  hewn 

Out  of  the  quiet  rock  the  elements 

Of  thy  trim  Mansion  destined  soon  to  blaze  30 

VII.  2  spared  or  made  by     1837:  of  the  ancient  [antique  MS.]  1800-32 
4-7  .  .  .  British  warrior,  no,  to  speak 

An  honest  truth  'tis  neither  more  nor  less 

Than  the  rude  germs  of  what  was  to  have  been 

A  pleasure-house    MS. 

6  so  1802:  which  was  to  have  been  built     1800  10  spot]  rock  MS. 

11  prudent  Knight     1837:  Knight  forthwith     1800-32 


In  snow-white  splendour, — think  again ;  and,  taught 

By  old  Sir  William  and  his  quarry,  leave 

Thy  fragments  to  the  bramble  and  the  rose ; 

There  let  the  vernal  slow- worm  sun  himself, 

And  let  the  redbreast  hop  from  stone  to  stone.  35 


[Composed  June  26,  1830. — Published  1835.] 

IN  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a  Tree 

At  Wordsworth's  suit  been  spared ; 
And  from  the  builder's  hand  this  Stone, 
For  some  rude  beauty  of  its  own, 

Was  rescued  by  the  Bard :  5 

So  let  it  rest ;  and  time  will  come 

When  here  the  tender-hearted 
May  heave  a  gentle  sigh  for  him, 

As  one  of  the  departed. 


[Composed  1826. — Published  1835.] 

THE  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights 
By  Roman  perseverance,  are  destroyed, 
Or  hidden  under  ground,  like  sleeping  worms. 
How  venture  then  to  hope  that  Time  will  spare 
This  humble  Walk  ?   Yet  on  the  mountain's  side  5 

31  splendour     1800,  1815:  glory     1802-5 

MOUNT.     1835 

1  this  fair  Vale  MS.  1 
3-5  The  builder  touched  this  old  grey  Stone 

'Twas  rescued  by  the  Bard;  MS.  1 

He  sav'd  this  old  grey  stone  that  pleas'd 

The  grove-frequenting  Bard  MS.  3 
6-7  Long  may  it  last !  and  here,  perchance, 

The  good  and  tender-hearted  MS. 

To  let  it  rest  in  peace ;  and  here 

(Heaven  knows  how  soon)  the  tender-hearted  1836,  corr.  to  text  in 
6-8  Long  may  it  rest  in  peace — and  here 

Perchance  the  .  .  . 

Will  MS.  2 

IX.  INSOBIPTION.   1835.  Intended  to  be  placed  on  the  door  of  the  further 
Gravel  Terrace  if  we  had  quitted  Rydal  Mount.   MS.  1  once  carried 
o'er  these  hills  MS.               4  Time  will  spare]  private  claims  Will  from  the 
injuries  of  time  protect  MS. 


A  POET'S  hand  first  shaped  it ;  and  the  steps 

Of  that  same  Bard — repeated  to  and  fro 

At  morn,  at  noon,  and  under  moonlight  skies 

Through  the  vicissitudes  of  many  a  year — 

Forbade  the  weeds  to  creep  o'er  its  grey  line.  10 

No  longer,  scattering  to  the  heedless  winds 

The  vocal  raptures  of  fresh  poesy, 

Shall  he  frequent  these  precincts ;  locked  no  more 

In  earnest  converse  with  belovfed  Friends, 

Here  will  he  gather  stores  of  ready  bliss,  15 

As  from  the  beds  and  borders  of  a  garden 

Choice  flowers  are  gathered !   But,  if  Power  may  spring 

Out  of  a  farewell  yearning — favoured  more 

Than  kindred  wishes  mated  suitably 

With  vain  regrets — the  Exile  would  consign  20 

This  Walk,  his  loved  possession,  to  the  care 

Of  those  pure  Minds  that  reverence  the  Muse. 



[This  group  (X-XIV)  was  composed  1818. — Published  1820.] 


HOPES  what  are  they  ? — Beads  of  morning 

Strung  on  slender  blades  of  grass  ; 

Or  a  spider's  web  adorning 

In  a  strait  and  treacherous  pass. 

What  are  fears  but  voices  airy  ?  5 

Whispering  harm  where  harm  is  not ; 
And  deluding  the  unwary 
Till  the  fatal  bolt  is  shot! 

IX.  6—8  steps  .  .  .  repeated  ...  at  noon]  foot  f  .  .  by  pacing  .  .  .  and  noon 
11—20  Murmuring  his  unambitious  verse  alone 

Or  in  sweet  converse  with  beloved  Friends, 
No  more  must  he  frequent  it.   Yet  might  power 
Follow  the  yearnings  of  the  spirit,  he 
Reluctantly  departing,  woujd  consign  MS. 
21  loved]  heart's  MS. 

X.  Before  1.  1  Methought  that  traversing  a  moorland  waste 

I  reached  a  shaggy  deeply-cloven  dell 

And  found  these  melancholy  fragments  traced 

On  the  stone  threshold  of  a  Hermit's  cell.   MSS. 

4  Some  strait  and  dangerous   MS.  1         6  Whispering]  Threatening  MS.  2: 

Haunting  Man  where  MS.  1 


What  is  glory  ? — in  the  socket 

See  how  dying  tapers  fare!  10 

What  is  pride  ? — a  whizzing  rocket 

That  would  emulate  a  star. 

What  is  friendship  ? — do  not  trust  her, 

Nor  the  vows  which  she  has  made ; 

Diamonds  dart  their  brightest  lustre  15 

Prom  a  palsy-shaken  head. 

What  is  truth  ? — a  staff  rejected ; 

Duty  ? — an  unwelcome  clog ; 

Joy  ? — a  moon  by  fits  reflected 

In  a  swamp  or  watery  bog ;  20 

Bright,  as  if  through  ether  steering, 
To  the  Traveller's  eye  it  shone : 
He  hath  hailed  it  re-appearing — 
And  as  quickly  it  is  gone ; 

Such  is  Joy — as  quickly  hidden,  25 

Or  mis-shapen  to  the  sight, 
And  by  sullen  weeds  forbidden 
To  resume  its  native  light. 

What  is  youth  ? — a  dancing  billow, 

(Winds  behind,  and  rocks  before!)  30 

Age  ? — a  drooping,  tottering  willow 

On  a  flat  and  lazy  shore. 

What  is  peace  ? — when  pain  is  over, 

And  love  ceases  to  rebel, 

Let  the  last  faint  sigh  discover  35 

That  precedes  the  passing-knell ! 

17  staff]  pearl  MSS.         19  ao  1827:  a  dazzling  moon  1820        20  watery] 
plashy  MS.  1         22  Traveller's]  Shepherd's  MS.  2 
23-4  Can  we  trust  its  reappearing, 

No,  'tis  dim,  misshapen,  gone  MSS. 

25  so  1827:  Gone,  as  if  for  ever  hidden      1820:  Bright,  and  in  a  moment 
hidden  C  28  native]  dazzling  C  29  dancing]  sparkling  MS.  1 

30  Shaped,  and  instantly  no  more  MS.  2  32  flat  and  lazy]  melan- 

choly MS.  1  33-6  not  in  MSS. :  in  their  place  is  No.  XII,  w/ra,  but 

L  5  See  yon  undulating  meadow  MS.  1 




PAUSE,  Traveller !  whosoe'er  thou  be 
Whom  chance  may  lead  to  this  retreat, 
Where  silence  yields  reluctantly 
Even  to  the  fleecy  straggler's  bleat ; 

Give  voice  to  what  my  hand  shall  trace,  5 

And  fear  not  lest  an  idle  sound 
Of  words  unsuited  to  the  place 
Disturb  its  solitude  profound. 

I  saw  this  Rock,  while  vernal  air 

Blew  softly  o'er  the  russet  heath,  10 

Uphold  a  Monument  as  fair 

As  church  or  abbey  furnisheth. 

Unsullied  did  it  meet  the  day, 

Like  marble,  white,  like  ether,  pure ; 

As  if,  beneath,  some  hero  lay,  15 

Honoured  with  costliest  sepulture. 

My  fancy  kindled  as  I  gazed ; 

And,  ever  as  the  sun  shone  forth, 

The  flattered  structure  glistened,  blazed, 

And  seemed  the  proudest  thing  on  earth.  20 

But  frost  had  reared  the  gorgeous  Pile 
Unsound  as  those  which  Fortune  builds — 
To  undermine  with  secret  guile, 
Sapped  by  the  very  beam  that  gilds. 

And,  while  I  gazed,  with  sudden  shock  25 

Fell  the  whole  Fabric  to  the  ground ; 
And  naked  left  this  dripping  Rock, 
With  shapeless  ruin  spread  around ! 

XI.  6-8  Bead  thou  what  I  shall  here  engrave 
And  dread  not  that  an  idle  sound 
Will  break  the  peace  which  nature  gave 
To  this  her  MS. 
9  vernal]  April  MS. 




HAST  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant, 
Bubbles  gliding  under  ice, 
Bodied  forth  and  evanescent, 
No  one  knows  by  what  device  ? 

Such  are  thoughts ! — A  wind-swept  meadow  5 

Mimicking  a  troubled  sea, 

Such  is  life ;  and  death  a  shadow 

From  the  rock  eternity ! 



TROUBLED  long  with  warring  notions 
Long  impatient  of  Thy  rod, 
I  resign  my  soul's  emotions 
Unto  Thee,  mysterious  God ! 

What  avails  the  kindly  shelter  5 

Yielded  by  this  craggy  rent, 
If  my  spirit  toss  and  welter 
On  the  waves  of  discontent  ? 

Parching  Summer  hath  no  warrant 

To  consume  this  crystal  Well ;  10 

Rains,  that  make  each  rill  a  torrent, 

Neither  sully  it  nor  swell. 

Thus,  dishonouring  not  her  station, 

Would  my  Life  present  to  Thee, 

Gracious  God,  the  pure  oblation  15 

Of  divine  tranquillity ! 

XII.  (v.  app.  crit,  to  X.  33-6).    1  flash  1820  (Misc.  Poems):  train  1820 
(Duddon  vol.) 

XIII.  8/9  Be  my  purpose  one  and  single 

Give  me  the  repose  to  feel 
Of  this  spring  whose  waters  mingle 
With  thy  Servant's  daily  meal.  MS. 
13  protected  in  her  station  MS. 



NOT  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest, 
Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  Morn ; 
Not  seldom  Evening  in  the  west 
Sinks  smilingly  forsworn. 

The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove,  5 

To  the  confiding  Bark,  untrue ; 
And,  if  she  trust  the  stars  above 
They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  Oak,  in  pomp  outspread, 

Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend,  10 

Draws  lightning  down  upon  the  head 

It  promised  to  defend. 

But  Thou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord, 

Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die ; 

Thy  smile  is  sure,  Thy  plighted  word  15 

No  change  can  falsify ! 

I  bent  before  Thy  gracious  throne, 

And  asked  for  peace  on  suppliant  knee ; 

And  peace  was  given, — nor  peace  alone, 

But  faith  sublimed  to  ecstasy !  20 



[Composed  1800. — Published  1800.] 

IF  thou  in  the  dear  love  of  some  one  Friend 

Hast  been  so  happy  that  thou  know'st  what  thoughts 

Will  sometimes  in  the  happiness  of  love 

Make  the  heart  sink,  then  wilt  thou  reverence 

This  quiet  spot ;  and,  Stranger !  not  unmoved  5 

XIV.  1-4  Not  seldom  they  repent  who  rest 

Their  hopes  upon  the  flattering  morn ; 

Oft  lover-like  the  ruddy  west 

Is  etc.  MS. 

9-12  not  in  MS.          18  on     1827:  with    MS.,  1820         20  so  1827:  faith 
and  hope  and  MS.,  1820 

XV.  1-14  so  1832:  1800-5  as  text  1-4,  but  sick  for  sink     1802-5;  and  for 
11.  6-14: 


Wilt  thou  behold  this  shapeless  heap  of  stones, 

The  desolate  ruins  of  St.  Herbert's  Cell. 

Here  stood  his  threshold ;  here  was  spread  the  roof 

That  sheltered  him,  a  self-secluded  Man, 

After  long  exercise  in  social  cares  10 

And  offices  humane,  intent  to  adore 

The  Deity,  with  undistracted  mind, 

And  meditate  on  everlasting  things, 

In  utter  solitude. — But  he  had  left 

A  Fellow-labourer,  whom  the  good  Man  loved  15 

As  his  own  soul.  And,  when  with  eye  upraised 

To  heaven  he  knelt  before  the  crucifix. 

While  o'er  the  lake  the  cataract  of  Lodore 

Pealed  to  his  orisons,  and  when  he  paced 

This  quiet  spot — St.  Herbert  hither  came, 

And  here,  for  many  seasons,  from  the  world 

Removed,  and  the  affections  of  the  world 

He  dwelt  in  solitude.    1800-5 

This  Island,  guarded  from  profane  approach 

By  mountains  high  and  waters  widely  spread. 

Is  that  recess  to  which  St.  Herbert  came 

In  life's  decline ;  a  self-secluded  Man, 

After  long  exercise  etc.  as  text  .  .  .  things. 

— Stranger !  this  shapeless  heap  of  stones  and  earth 

(Long  be  its  mossy  covering  undisturbed!) 

Is  reverenced  as  a  vestige  of  the  Abode 

In  which,  through  many  seasons  etc.  as  1800,  1815-20 

Stranger !  this  shapeless  heap  of  stones  and  earth 

Is  the  last  relic  of  St.  Herbert's  Cell. 

Here  stood  his  threshold ;  here  was  spread  the  roof 

That  sheltered  him,  a  self-secluded  Man  etc.  as  text  1827 
MS.  1  as  1815,  but  Seclusion  which  .  . .  chose/or  recess  to  which . . .  came,  and 

Hither  he  came  in  life's  austere  decline, 

And,  Stranger !  this  black  heap  etc.  for  Stranger !  this  shapeless 

heap  etc. 
MS  2,  for  Is  that  recess  etc.  has 

Gave  to  St.  Herbert  a  benign  retreat. 

Upon  a  Staff  supported,  and  his  Brow 

White  with  the  peaceful  diadem  of  age, 

Hither  he  came — a  self -secluded  Man  etc.  to  things 

Behold  that  shapeless  heap  etc. 

'Tis  reverenced  etc. 
14-15  But  .  .  .  labourer]  He  living  here 

This  Island's  sole  inhabitant !  had  left 
A  Fellow-labourer    MS.  and  1800  only 
16-17  so  1815:  And  when  within  his  cave 
Alone  he  etc.  1800-5 


Along  the  beach  of  this  small  isle  and  thought  20 

Of  his  Companion,  he  would  pray  that  both 

(Now  that  their  earthly  duties  were  fulfilled) 

Might  die  in  the  same  moment.  Nor  in  vain 

So  prayed  he : — as  our  chronicles  report, 

Though  here  the  Hermit  numbered  his  last  day  25 

Far  from  St.  Cuthbert  his  beloved  Friend, 

Those  holy  Men  both  died  in  the  same  hour. 


[Composed  ?.— Published  I860.] 

BEHOLD  an  emblem  of  our  human  mind 

Crowded  with  thoughts  that  need  a  settled  home, 

Yet,  like  to  eddying  balls  of  foam 

Within  this  whirlpool,  they  each  other  chase 

Round  and  round,  and  neither  find  5 

An  outlet  nor  a  resting-place ! 

Stranger,  if  such  disquietude  be  thine, 

Fall  on  thy  knees  and  sue  for  help  divine. 

21  would  pray     1802;  had  pray'd     1800         22  not  in  1800-5         25  day 

1815:  days     1800-5 

XVI.     1-4  Grant  me,  O  blessed  Lord,  a  mind 

In  which  my  thoughts  may  have  a  quiet  home 
Thoughts  which  now  fret  like  balls  of  foam 
That  in  a  whirlpool  each  the  other  chase  MS. 




"Call  up  him  who  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Carnbuscan  bold." 

In  the  following  Poem  no  further  deviation  from  the  original  has  been  made 
than  was  necessary  for  the  fluent  reading  and  instant  understanding  of 
the  Author:  so  much,  however,  is  the  language  altered  since  Chaucer's 
time,  especially  in  pronunciation,  that  much  was  to  be  removed,  and  its 
place  supplied  with  as  little  incongruity  as  possible.  The  ancient  accent 
has  been  retained  in  a  few  conjunctions,  as  also  and  alway,  from  a  con- 
viction that  such  sprinklings  of  antiquity  would  be  admitted,  by  persons 
of  taste,  to  have  a  graceful  accordance  with  the  subject.  [1820]  The 
fierce  bigotry  of  the  Prioress  forms  a  fine  back -ground  for  her  tender- 
hearted sympathies  with  the  Mother  and  Child ;  and  the  mode  in  which 
the  story  is  told  amply  atones  for  the  extravagance  of  the  miracle.  [1827] 

[Written  December  4r-5,  1801. — Published  1820.] 


"0  LORD,  our  Lord!  how  wondrously,"  (quoth  she) 

"Thy  name  in  this  large  world  is  spread  abroad! 

For  not  alone  by  men  of  dignity 

Thy  worship  is  performed  and  precious  laud ; 

But  by  the  mouths  of  children,  gracious  God !  5 

Thy  goodness  is  set  forth ;  they  when  they  lie 

Upon  the  breast  Thy  name  do  glorify. 


"Wherefore  in  praise,  the  worthiest  that  I  may, 
Jesu !  of  Thee,  and  the  white  Lily-flower 
Which  did  Thee  bear,  and  is  a  Maid  for  aye,  10 

To  tell  a  story  I  will  use  my  power ; 
Not  that  I  may  increase  her  honour's  dower, 
For  she  herself  is  honour,  and  the  root 
Of  goodness,  next  her  Son,  our  soul's  best  boot. 

I.  1-2  wondrously  .  .  .  large]  marvellous  .  .  .  huge  MS.         6  Thy  bounty 
is  performed  MS.  7  glorify]  magnify  MS.  10  for  aye]  alway 

MS.  11  use]  do     MS. 

917.17  IV  P 



"0  Mother  Maid!  O  Maid  and  Mother  free!  15 

0  bush  unburnt!  burning  in  Moses*  sight! 
That  down  didst  ravish  from  the  Deity, 
Through  humbleness,  the  spirit  that  did  alight 
Upon  thy  heart,  whence,  through  that  glory's  might, 
Conceived  was  the  Father's  sapience,  20 

Help  me  to  tell  it  in  thy  reverence ! 


"Lady!  thy  goodness,  thy  magnificence, 

Thy  virtue,  and  thy  great  humility, 

Surpass  all  science  and  all  utterance ; 

For  sometimes,  Lady !  ere  men  pray  to  thee  25 

Thou  goest  before  in  thy  benignity 

The  light  to  us  vouchsafing  of  thy  prayer, 

To  be  our  guide  unto  thy  Son  so  dear. 


"My  knowledge  is  so  weak,  O  blissful  Queen! 

To  tell  abroad  thy  mighty  worthiness,  30 

That  I  the  weight  of  it  may  not  sustain ; 

But  as  a  child  of  twelvemonths  old  or  less, 

That  laboureth  his  language  to  express, 

Even  so  fare  I ;  and  therefore,  I  thee  pray, 

Guide  thou  my  song  which  I  of  thee  shall  say.  35 


"There  was  in  Asia,  in  a  mighty  town, 

'Mong  Christian  folk,  a  street  where  Jews  might  be, 

Assigned  to  them  and  given  them  for  their  own 

By  a  great  Lord;  for  gain  and  usury, 

Hateful  to  Christ  and  to  His  company ;  40 

And  through  this  street  who  list  might  ride  and  wend ; 

Free  was  it,  and  unbarred  at  either  end. 


"A  little  school  of  Christian  people  stood 
Down  at  the  farther  end,  in  which  there  were 
A  nest  of  children  come  of  Christian  blood,  45 

24  Surpass]  Passeth  MS. 

27-8  And  givest  us  the  guidance  of  thy  prayer 

To  be  a  light  unto  etc.  MS. 
42  For  it  was  free  and  open  MS.  43  Christian  folk  there  stood  MS. 


That  learned  in  that  school  from  year  to  year 
Such  sort  of  doctrine  as  men  used  there, 
That  is  to  say,  to  sing  and  read  als6, 
As  little  children  in  their  childhood  do. 


4 'Among  these  children  was  a  Widow's  son,  50 

A  little  scholar,  scarcely  seven  years  old, 

Who  day  by  day  unto  this  school  hath  gone, 

And  eke,  when  he  the  image  did  behold 

Of  Jesu's  Mother,  as  he  had  been  told, 

This  Child  was  wont  to  kneel  adown  and  say  55 

Ave  Marie,  as  he  goeth  by  the  way. 


"This  Widow  thus  her  little  Son  hath  taught 

Our  blissful  Lady,  Jesu's  Mother  dear, 

To  worship  aye,  and  he  forgat  it  not ; 

For  simple  infant  hath  a  ready  ear.  60 

Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  youth :  and  hence, 

Calling  to  mind  this  matter  when  I  may, 

Saint  Nicholas  in  my  presence  standeth  aye, 

For  he  so  young  to  Christ  did  reverence. 


"This  little  Child,  while  in  the  school  he  sate  65 

His  Primer  conning  with  an  earnest  cheer, 

The  whilst  the  rest  their  anthem-book  repeat 

The  Alma  Redemptoris  did  he  hear ; 

And  as  he  durst  he  drew  him  near  and  near, 

And  hearkened  to  the  words  and  to  the  note,  70 

Till  the  first  verse  he  learned  it  all  by  rote. 


"This  Latin  knew  he  nothing  what  it  said, 
For  he  too  tender  was  of  age  to  know ; 

51  scarcely]  that  was  MS. 

66—7  .  .  .  learning  his  little  book 

As  he  sate  at  his  primer  in  the  school 

Where  children  learn  the  anthem-book  by  rule  MS. 

71  And  ...  he  knew  it  ...  MS. 

72-6  This  Latin  wist  he  nought  what  it  did  say, 
For  he  so  young  and  tender  was  of  age ; 


But  to  his  comrade  he  repaired,  and  prayed 

That  he  the  meaning  of  this  song  would  show,  75 

And  unto  him  declare  why  men  sing  so ; 

This  oftentimes,  that  he  might  be  at  ease, 

This  child  did  him  beseech  on  his  bare  knees. 


"His  Schoolfellow,  who  elder  was  than  he, 

Answered  him  thus : — 'This  song,  I  have  heard  say,  80 

Was  fashioned  for  our  blissful  Lady  free ; 

Her  to  salute,  and  also  her  to  pray 

To  be  our  help  upon  our  dying  day  : 

If  there  is  more  in  this,  I  know  it  not ; 

Song  do  I  learn, — small  grammar  I  have  got.'  85 


"  cAnd  is  this  song  fashioned  in  reverence 
Of  Jesu's  Mother  ?'  said  this  Innocent ; 
'Now,  certes,  I  will  use  my  diligence 
To  con  it  all  ere  Christmas-tide  be  spent ; 
Although  I  for  my  Primer  shall  be  shent,  90 

And  shall  be  beaten  three  times  in  an  hour, 
Our  Lady  I  will  praise  with  all  my  power.' 


"His  Schoolfellow,  whom  he  had  so  besought, 

As  they  went  homeward  taught  him  privily 

And  then  he  sang  it  well  and  fearlessly,  95 

From  word  to  word  according  to  the  note : 

Twice  in  a  day  it  passed  through  his  throat ; 

Homeward  and  schoolward  whensoever  he  went, 

On  Jesu's  Mother  fixed  was  his  intent. 


"Through  all  the  Jewry  (this  before  said  I)  100 

This  little  Child,  as  he  came  to  and  fro, 
Full  merrily  then  would  he  sing  and  cry, 
O  Alma  Redemptoris!  high  and  low: 

But  on  a  day  his  fellow  he  gan  pray 

To  expound  to  him  the  song  that  he  might  know 

Its  proper  meaning  and  why  etc.  MS. 

77  have  his  ease  MS.       78  Prayed  this  child  to  him  etc.  MS.        85  Song 
do]  The  song  MS. 


The  sweetness  of  Christ's  Mother  pierced  so 

His  heart,  that  her  to  praise,  to  her  to  pray,  105 

He  cannot  stop  his  singing  by  the  way. 


"The  Serpent,  Satan,  our  first  foe,  that  hath 

His  wasp's  nest  in  Jew's  heart,  upswelled — '0  woe, 

O  Hebrew  people!'  said  he  in  his  wrath, 

'Is  it  an  honest  thing  ?   Shall  this  be  so  ?  no 

That  such  a  Boy  where'er  he  lists  shall  go 

In  your  despite,  and  sing  his  hymns  and  saws, 

Which  is  against  the  reverence  of  our  laws!' 


"From  that  day  forward  have  the  Jews  conspired 

Out  of  the  world  this  Innocent  to  chase  ;  115 

And  to  this  end  a  Homicide  they  hired, 

That  in  an  alley  had  a  privy  place, 

And,  as  the  Child  'gan  to  the  school  to  pace, 

This  cruel  Jew  him  seized,  and  held  him  fast 

And  cut  his  throat,  and  in  a  pit  him  cast.  120 


"I  say  that  him  into  a  pit  they  threw, 

A  loathsome  pit,  whence  noisome  scents  exhale ; 

O  cursed  folk !  away,  ye  Herods  new ! 

What  may  your  ill  intentions  you  avail  ? 

Murder  will  out ;  certes  it  will  not  fail ;  125 

Know,  that  the  honour  of  high  God  may  spread, 

The  blood  cries  out  on  your  accursed  deed. 


"O  Martyr  'stablished  in  virginity! 

Now  may'st  thou  sing  for  aye  before  the  throne, 

Following  the  Lamb  celestial,"  quoth  she,  130 

"Of  which  the  great  Evangelist,  Saint  John, 

In  Patmos  wrote,  who  saith  of  them  that  go 

Before  the  Lamb  singing  continually, 

That  never  fleshly  woman  they  did  know. 

Ill  list     1820          119  cruel]  cursed     MS.          122  Where[to]  these  Jews 
their  things  unclean  did  trail  MS.        123  .  .  .  O  Herods  old  and  new   MS. 



"Now  this  poor  Widow  waiteth  all  that  night  135 

After  her  little  Child,  and  he  came  not ; 

For  which,  by  earliest  glimpse  of  morning  light, 

With  face  all  pale  with  dread  and  busy  thought, 

She  at  the  School  and  elsewhere  him  hath  sought, 

Until  thus  far  she  learned,  that  he  had  been  140 

In  the  Jews'  street,  and  there  he  last  was  seen. 


"With  Mother's  pity  in  her  breast  enclosed 

She  goeth,  as  she  were  half  out  of  her  mind, 

To  every  place  wherein  she  hath  supposed 

By  likelihood  her  little  Son  to  find ;  145 

And  ever  on  Christ's  Mother  meek  and  kind 

She  cried,  till  to  the  Jewry  she  was  brought, 

And  him  among  the  accursed  Jews  she  sought. 


"She  asketh,  and  she  piteously  doth  pray 

To  every  Jew  that  dwelleth  in  that  place  150 

To  tell  her  if  her  child  had  passed  that  way ; 

They  all  said — Nay ;  but  Jesu  of  His  grace 

Gave  to  her  thought,  that  in  a  little  space 

She  for  her  Son  in  that  same  spot  did  cry 

Where  he  was  cast  into  a  pit  hard  by.  155 


"O  Thou  great^God  that  dost  perform  Thy  laud 

By  mouths  of  Innocents,  lo !  here  Thy  might ; 

This  gem  of  chastity,  this  emerald, 

And  eke  of  martyrdom  this  ruby  bright, 

There,  where  with  mangled  throat  he  lay  upright,          160 

The  Alma  Redemptoris  'gan  to  sing 

So  loud,  that  with  his  voice  the  place  did  ring. 

137  at  daybreak,  soon  as  it  was  light  MS.         144  To  all  and  every  place 

where  she  MS. 

153-4  Gave  it  to  her  in  thought  that  in  that  place 

She  for  her  little  Son  anon  did  cry  MS. 
162  ...  all  the  place  therewith  did  ring.  MS. 



"The  Christian  folk  that  through  the  Jewry  went 
Come  to  the  spot  in  wonder  at  the  thing ; 
And  hastily  they  for  the  Provost  sent ;  165 

Immediately  he  came,  not  tarrying, 
And  praiseth  Christ  that  is  our  heavenly  King, 
And  eke  His  Mother,  honour  of  Mankind : 
Which  done,  he  bade  that  they  the  Jews  should  bind. 


"This  Child  with  piteous  lamentation  then  170 

Was  taken  up,  singing  his  song  alw&y ; 

And  with  procession  great  and  pomp  of  men 

To  the  next  Abbey  him  they  bare  away ; 

His  Mother  swooning  by  the  body  lay : 

And  scarcely  could  the  people  that  were  near  175 

Remove  this  second  Rachel  from  the  bier. 


"Torment  and  shameful  death  to  every  one 

This  Provost  doth  for  those  bad  Jews  prepare 

That  of  this  murder  wist,  and  that  anon : 

Such  wickedness  his  judgments  cannot  spare ;  180 

Who  will  do  evil,  evil  shall  he  bear ; 

Them  therefore  with  wild  horses  did  he  draw. 

And  after  that  he  hung  them  by  the  law. 


"Upon  his  bier  this  Innocent  doth  lie 

Before  the  altar  while  the  Mass  doth  last:  185 

The  Abbot  with  his  convent's  company 
Then  sped  themselves  to  bury  him  full  fast ; 
And,  when  they  holy  water  on  him  cast, 
Yet  spake  this  Child  when  sprinkled  was  the  water ; 
And  sang,  0  Alma  Redemptoris  Mater!  190 


"This  Abbot,  for  he  was  a  holy  man, 
As  all  Monks  are,  or  surely  ought  to  be, 
In  supplication  to  the  Child  began 

174  body     1845:  bier    MS.,  1820-43,  1850 
191-2  This  Abbot  who  had  been  a  holy  man 

And  was,  as  all  monks  are,  or  ought  to  be.  MS. 


Thus  saying,  '0  dear  Child !  I  summon  thee 

In  virtue  of  the  holy  Trinity  195 

Tell  me  the  cause  why  thou  dost  sing  this  hymn, 

Since  that  thy  throat  is  cut,  as  it  doth  seem.' 


"  'My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow,' 

Said  this  young  Child,  'and  by  the  law  of  kind 

I  should  have  died,  yea  many  hours  ago  ;  200 

But  Jesus  Christ,  as  in  the  books  ye  find, 

Will  that  His  glory  last,  and  be  in  mind ; 

And,  for  the  worship  of  His  Mother  dear, 

Yet  may  I  sing,  O  Alma!  loud  and  clear. 


"  This  well  of  mercy,  Jesu's  Mother  sweet,  205 

After  my  knowledge  I  have  loved  alw&y ; 

And  in  the  hour  when  I  my  death  did  meet 

To  me  she  came,  and  thus  to  me  did  say, 

Thou  in  thy  dying  sing  this  holy  lay/ 

As  ye  have  heard ;  and  soon  as  I  had  sung  210 

Methought  she  laid  a  grain  upon  my  tongue. 


"  'Wherefore  I  sing,  nor  can  from  song  refrain, 

In  honour  of  that  blissful  Maiden  free, 

Till  from  my  tongue  off- taken  is  the  grain ; 

And  after  that  thus  said  she  unto  me  ;  215 

'My  little  Child,  then  will  I  come  for  thee 

Soon  as  the  grain  from  off  thy  tongue  they  take : 

Be  not  dismayed,  I  will  not  thee  forsake!' 


"This  holy  Monk,  this  Abbot — him  mean  I, 

Touched  then  his  tongue,  and  took  away  the  grain ;          220 

And  he  gave  up  the  ghost  full  peacefully ; 

And,  when  the  Abbot  had  this  wonder  seen, 

His  salt  tears  trickled  down  like  showers  of  rain ; 

And  on  his  face  he  dropped  upon  the  ground, 

And  still  he  lay  as  if  he  had  been  bound.  225 

199  in  my  natural  kind  MS. 



"Eke  the  whole  Convent  on  the  pavement  lay, 
Weeping  and  praising  Jesu's  Mother  dear ; 
And  after  that  they  rose,  and  took  their  way, 
And  lifted  up  this  Martyr  from  the  bier, 
And  in  a  tomb  of  precious  marble  clear  230 

Enclosed  his  uncorrupted  body  sweet. — 
Where'er  he  be,  God  grant  us  him  to  meet ! 


"Young  Hew  of  Lincoln!  in  like  sort  laid  low 

By  cursed  Jews — thing  well  and  widely  known, 

For  it  was  done  a  little  while  ago —  235 

Pray  also  thou  for  us,  while  here  we  tarry 

Weak  sinful  folk,  that  God,  with  pitying  eye, 

In  mercy  would  his  mercy  multiply 

On  us,  for  reverence  of  his  Mother  Mary!" 


[Written  December  7-9,  1801. — Published  1841  (R.  H.  Home's  The  Poems 
of  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  Modernised) ;  vol.  of  1842.] 


THE  God  of  Love — ah,  benedicite! 

How  mighty  and  how  great  a  Lord  is  he ! 

For  he  of  low  hearts  can  make  high,  of  high 

He  can  make  low,  and  unto  death  bring  nigh ; 

And  hard  hearts  he  can  make  them  kind  and  free.  5 


Within  a  little  time,  as  hath  been  found, 
He  can  make  sick  folk  whole  and  fresh  and  sound ; 
Them  who  are  whole  in  body  and  in  mind, 
He  can  make  sick, — bind  can  he  and  unbind 
All  that  he  will  have  bound,  or  have  unbound.  10 

231  They  did  enclose  his  little  body  sweet  MS.  232  There  he  is  now 

etc.  MS. 
235  so  1837: 

For  it  was  done  but  little  while  ago  MS. 

For  not  long  since  was  dealt  the  cruel  blow   1820-32 
II.     3-4  High  can  he  make  the  heart  that 's  low  and  poor 

The  high  heart  low,  and  bring  it  to  death's  door  MSS. 
(And  high  hearts  low,  through  pains  which  [that]  they  endure    MSS.  alt.) 



To  tell  his  might  my  wit  may  not  suffice ; 
Foolish  men  he  can  make  them  out  of  wise ; — 
For  he  may  do  all  that  he  will  devise ; 
Loose  livers  he  can  make  abate  their  vice, 
And  proud  hearts  can  make  tremble  in  a  trice.  15 


In  brief,  the  whole  of  what  he  will,  he  may ; 

Against  him  dare  not  any  wight  say  nay ; 

To  humble  or  afflict  whome'er  he  will, 

To  gladden  or  to  grieve,  he  hath  like  skill ; 

But  most  his  might  he  sheds  on  the  eve  of  May.  20 


For  every  true  heart,  gentle  heart  and  free, 

That  with  him  is,  or  thinketh  so  to  be, 

Now  against  May  shall  have  some  stirring — whether 

To  joy,  or  be  it  to  some  mourning ;  never 

At  other  time,  methinks,  in  like  degree.  25 


For  now  when  they  may  hear  the  small  birds'  song, 
And  see  the  budding  leaves  the  branches  throng, 
This  unto  their  rememberance  doth  bring 
All  kinds  of  pleasure  mix'd  with  sorrowing ; 
And  longing  of  sweet  thoughts  that  ever  long.  30 


And  of  that  longing  heaviness  doth  come, 

Whence  oft  great  sickness  grows  of  heart  and  home ; 

Sick  are  they  all  for  lack  of  their  desire ; 

And  thus  in  Ma^y  their  hearts  are  set  on  fire, 

So  that  they  burn  forth  in  great  martyrdom.  35 


In  sooth,  I  speak  from  feeling,  what  though  now 
Old  am  I,  and  to  genial  pleasure  slow ; 
Yet  have  I  felt  of  sickness  through  the  May, 

25  In  no  time  else  (corr.  to  At  other  time)  so  much,  as  thinketh  me.  MS. 
27  And  see  the  leaves  spring  green  and  plentiful  MS.          28  remember- 
ance MS.,  1842:  remembrance    1860        30  And  lusty  thoughts  of  mighty 
longing  full.  MS. 
36-7  And  this  of  feeling  truly  have  I  spoken 

What  though  that  I  be  old  and  now  down  broken  MS. 


Both  hot  and  cold,  and  heart-aches  every  day, — 

How  hard,  alas !  to  bear,  I  only  know.  4° 


Such  shaking  doth  the  fever  in  me  keep 

Through  all  this  May  that  I  have  little  sleep ; 

And  also  'tis  not  likely  unto  me, 

That  any  living  heart  should  sleepy  be 

In  which  Love's  dart  its  fiery  point  doth  steep.  45 


But  tossing  lately  on  a  sleepless  bed, 

I  of  a  token  thought  which  Lovers  heed ; 

How  among  them  it  was  a  common  tale, 

That  it  was  good  to  hear  the  Nightingale, 

Ere  the  vile  Cuckoo's  note  be  uttered.  50 


And  then  I  thought  anon  as  it  was  day, 

I  gladly  would  go  somewhere  to  essay 

If  I  perchance  a  Nightingale  might  hear, 

For  yet  had  I  heard  none,  of  all  that  year, 

And  it  was  then  the  third  night  of  the  May.  55 


And  soon  as  I  a  glimpse  of  day  espied, 

No  longer  would  I  in  my  bed  abide, 

But  straightway  to  a  wood  that  was  hard  by, 

Forth  did  I  go,  alone  and  fearlessly, 

And  held  the  pathway  down  by  a  brook  side ;  60 


Till  to  a  lawn  I  came  all  white  and  green, 
I  in  so  fair  a  one  had  never  been. 
The  ground  was  green,  with  daisy  powdered  over ; 
Tall  were  the  flowers,  the  grove  a  lofty  cover, 
All  green  and  white ;  and  nothing  else  was  seen.  65 


There  sate  I  down  among  the  fair  fresh  flowers, 
And  saw  the  birds  come  tripping  from  their  bowers, 

40  hard]  sore  MS.     I  only]  no  wight  can  MS.  45  In  whom  his 

fiery  arrow  love  MS.  46-7  But  on  the  other  night  as  I  lay  waking 

...  of  Lovers  making  MS.  50  Before  the  sorry  Cuckoo  silence 

breaking.  MS. 


Where  they  had  rested  them  all  night ;  and  they, 

Who  were  so  joyful  at  the  light  of  day, 

Began  to  honour  May  with  all  their  powers.  70 


Well  did  they  know  that  service  all  by  rote, 

And  there  was  many  and  many  a  lovely  note, 

Some,  singing  loud,  as  if  they  had  complained ; 

Some  with  their  notes  another  manner  feigned ; 

And  some  did  sing  all  out  with  the  full  throat.  75 


They  pruned  themselves,  and  made  themselves  right  gay, 

Dancing  and  leaping  light  upon  the  spray ; 

And  ever  two  and  two  together  were, 

The  same  as  they  had  chosen  for  the  year, 

Upon  Saint  Valentine's  returning  day.  80 


Meanwhile  the  stream,  whose  bank  I  sate  upon, 

Was  making  such  a  noise  as  it  ran  on 

Accordant  to  the  sweet  Birds'  harmony ; 

Methought  that  it  was  the  best  melody 

Which  ever  to  man's  ear  a  passage  won.  85 


And  for  delight,  but  how  I  never  wot, 

I  in  a  slumber  and  a  swoon  was  caught, 

Not  all  asleep  and  yet  not  waking  wholly ; 

And  as  I  lay,  the  Cuckoo,  bird  unholy, 

Broke  silence,  or  I  heard  him  in  my  thought.  90 


And  that  was  right  upon  a  tree  fast  by, 

And  who  was  then  ill  satisfied  but  I  ? 

Now,  God,  quoth  I,  that  died  upon  the  rood, 

From  thee  and  thy  base  throat,  keep  all  that's  good, 

Pull  little  joy  have  I  now  of  thy  cry.  95 

70  Began  to  do  the  honours  of  the  May.  MS.  86-7  .  .  .  know  not 

well  Into  a  ...  I  fell  MS.  92  But  who  had  then  an  evil  game  but 

I?  MS. 



And,  as  I  with  the  Cuckoo  thus  'gan  chide, 

In  the  next  bush  that  was  me  fast  beside, 

I  heard  the  lusty  Nightingale  so  sing, 

That  her  clear  voice  made  a  loud  rioting, 

Echoing  thorough  all  the  green  wood  wide.  100 


Ah !  good  sweet  Nightingale !  for  my  heart's  cheer, 

Hence  hast  thou  stayed  a  little  while  too  long ; 

For  we  have  had  the  sorry  Cuckoo  here, 

And  she  hath  been  before  thee  with  her  song ; 

Evil  light  on  her!  she  hath  done  me  wrong.  105 


But  hear  you  now  a  wondrous  thing,  I  pray ; 

As  long  as  in  that  swooning-fit  I  lay, 

Methought  I  wist  right  well  what  these  birds  meant, 

And  had  good  knowing  both  of  their  intent, 

And  of  their  speech,  and  all  that  they  would  say.  no 


The  Nightingale  thus  in  my  hearing  spake : — 

Good  Cuckoo,  seek  some  other  bush  or  brake, 

And,  prithee,  let  us  that  can  sing  dwell  here ; 

For  every  wight  eschews  thy  song  to  hear, 

Such  uncouth  singing  verily  dost  thou  make.  115 


What !  quoth  she  then,  what  is't  that  ails  thee  now  ? 

It  seems  to  me  I  sing  as  well  as  thou ; 

Foy  mine 's  a  song  that  is  both  true  and  plain, — 

Although  I  cannot  quaver  so  in  vain 

As  thou  dost  in  thy  throat,  I  wot  not  how.  120 


All  men  may  understanding  have  of  me, 
But,  Nightingale,  so  may  they  not  of  thee ; 

98  ...  a  Nightingale  so  gladly  sing  MS.  103  had     1842:  heard 

MS.,  1841 

111-13  .  .  .  saith 

Now  honest  Cuckoo,  go  away  somewhere, 

And  let  us  that  can  sing  inhabit  here ;  MS. 
115  ...  is  it  in  good  faith.   MS. 


For  thou  hast  many  a  foolish  and  quaint  cry: — 

Thou  say'st  OSEB,  OSEB,  then  how  may  I 

Have  knowledge,  I  thee  pray,  what  this  may  be  ?  125 


Ah,  fool !  quoth  she,  wist  thou  not  what  it  is  ? 

Oft  as  I  say  OSEE,  OSEE,  I  wis, 

Then  mean  I,  that  I  should  be  wonderous  fain 

That  shamefully  they  one  and  all  were  slain, 

Whoever  against  Love  mean  aught  amiss.  130 


And  also  would  I  that  they  all  were  dead, 

Who  do  not  think  in  love  their  life  to  lead ; 

For  who  is  loth  the  God  of  Love  to  obey, 

Is  only  fit  to  die,  I  dare  well  say, 

And  for  that  cause  OSEE  I  cry ;  take  heed !  135 


Ay,  quoth  the  Cuckoo,  that  is  a  quaint  law, 
That  all  must  love  or  die ;  but  I  withdraw, 
And  take  my  leave  of  all  such  company, 
For  mine  intent  it  neither  is  to  die, 
Nor  ever  while  I  live  Love's  yoke  to  draw.  140 


For  lovers,  of  all  folk  that  be  alive, 

The  most  disquiet  have  and  least  do  thrive ; 

Most  feeling  have  of  sorrow,  woe  and  care, 

And  the  least  welfare  cometh  to  their  share ; 

What  need  is  there  against  the  truth  to  strive  ?  145 


What !  quoth  she,  thou  art  all  out  of  thy  mind, 

That  in  thy  churlishness  a  cause  canst  find 

To  speak  of  Love's  true  Servants  in  this  mood ; 

For  in  this  world  no  service  is  so  good 

To  every  wight  that  gentle  is  of  kind.  150 

123  nice  and  curious  cry  MS.  124  I've  heard  thee  say  Jug  jug  MS. 

127  As  often  as  I  say  Jug  jug  MS.  135  OSEE]  Jug  jug  MS. 

137-8  That  all  must  love  and  perish  shamefully, 
But  I  take  leave  MS. 



For  thereof  comes  all  goodness  and  all  worth ; 

All  gentiless  and  honour  thence  come  forth ; 

Thence  worship  comes,  content  and  true  heart's  pleasure, 

And  full-assured  trust,  joy  without  measure, 

And  jollity,  fresh  cheerfulness,  and  mirth ;  155 


And  bounty,  lowliness,  and  courtesy, 

And  seemliness,  and  faithful  company, 

And  dread  of  shame  that  will  not  do  amiss ; 

For  he  that  faithfully  Love's  servant  is, 

Rather  than  be  disgraced,  would  chuse  to  die.  160 


And  that  the  very  truth  it  is  which  I 
Now  say — in  such  belief  I'll  live  and  die ; 
And  Cuckoo,  do  thou  so,  by  my  advice. 
Then,  quoth  she,  let  me  never  hope  for  bliss, 
If  with  that  counsel  I  do  e'er  comply.  165 


Good  Nightingale !  thou  speakest  wondrous  fair, 

Yet  for  all  that,  the  truth  is  found  elsewhere ; 

For  Love  in  young  folk  is  but  rage,  I  wis ; 

And  Love  in  old  folk  a  great  dotage  is ; 

Who  most  it  useth,  him  'twill  most  impair.  170 


For  thereof  come  all  contraries  to  gladness ; 

Thence  sickness  comes,  and  overwhelming  sadness, 

Mistrust  and  jealousy,  despite,  debate, 

Dishonour,  shame,  envy  importunate, 

Pride,  anger,  mischief,  poverty,  and  madness.  175 

151-3  .  .  .  verily 

Thereof  all  honour  and  all  gentleness, 

Thereof  comes  worship,  hope,  and  all  heart's  pleasure,  MS. 
152  gentiless    1842:  gentleness    1841          155  And  freshness,  and  delight, 
and  jollity,   MS.  160  had  liefer  die  MS. 

161-5  And  that  then  is  the  truth  which  now  I  say, 

In  that  belief  I  will  both  live  and  die, 

And,  Cuckoo,  eke  do  thou  my  counsel  try. 

Then,  quoth  she,  may  no  pleasure  with  me  stay, 

If  I  that  counsel  ever  do  obey.  MS. 
167  And  yet  the  truth  is  contrary  to  this;   MS. 



Loving  is  aye  an  office  of  despair, 

And  one  thing  is  therein  which  is  not  fair ; 

For  whoso  gets  of  love  a  little  bliss, 

Unless  it  alway  stay  with  him,  I  wis 

He  may  full  soon  go  with  an  old  man's  hair.  180 


And,  therefore,  Nightingale!  do  thou  keep  nigh, 

For  trust  me  well,  in  spite  of  thy  quaint  cry, 

If  long  time  from  thy  mate  thou  be,  or  far, 

Thou'lt  be  as  others  that  forsaken  are ; 

Then  shalt  thou  raise  a  clamour  as  do  I.  185 


Fie,  quoth  she,  on  thy  name,  Bird  ill  beseen ! 
The  God  of  Love  afflict  thee  with  all  teen, 
For  thou  art  worse  than  mad  a  thousand  fold ; 
For  many  a  one  hath  virtues  manifold, 
Who  had  been  nought,  if  Love  had  never  been.  190 


For  evermore  his  servants  Love  amendeth, 
And  he  from  every  blemish  them  defendeth ; 
And  maketh  them  to  burn,  as  in  a  fire, 
In  loyalty,  and  worshipful  desire, 
And,  when  it  likes  him,  joy  enough  them  sendeth.  195 


Thou  Nightingale !  the  Cuckoo  said,  be  still, 
For  Love  no  reason  hath  but  his  own  will ; — 
For  to  th'  untrue  he  oft  gives  ease  and  joy ; 
True  lovers  dotfr  so  bitterly  annoy, 
He  lets  them  perish  through  that  grievous  ill.  200 


With  such  a  master  would  I  never  be  ;* 
For  he,  in  sooth,  is  blind,  and  may  not  see, 
And  knows  not  when  he  hurts  and  when  he  heals ; 
Within  this  court  full  seldom  Truth  avails, 
So  diverse  in  his  wilfulness  is  he.  205 

1  From  a  manuscript  in  the  Bodleian,  as  are  also  stanzas  44  and  45 
II 841],  which  are  necessary  to  complete  the  sense.  [1842] 

192  And  from  all  evil  stains  he  MS.  200  That  for  distress  of  mind 

themselves  they  kill.  MS. 



Then  of  the  Nightingale  did  I  take  note, 

How  from  her  inmost  heart  a  sigh  she  brought, 

And  said,  Alas !  that  ever  I  was  born, 

Not  one  word  have  I  now,  I  am  so  forlorn, — 

And  with  that  word,  she  into  tears  burst  out.  210 


Alas,  alas !  my  very  heart  will  break, 

Quoth  she,  to  hear  this  churlish  bird  thus  speak 

Of  Love,  and  of  his  holy  services ; 

Now,  God  of  Love !  thou  help  me  in  some  wise, 

That  vengeance  on  this  Cuckoo  I  may  wreak.  215 


And  so  methought  I  started  up  anon, 

And  to  the  brook  I  ran  and  got  a  stone, 

Which  at  the  Cuckoo  hardily  I  cast, 

And  he  for  dread  did  fly  away  full  fast ; 

And  glad,  in  sooth,  was  I  when  he  was  gone.  220 


And  as  he  flew,  the  Cuckoo,  ever  and  aye, 

Kept  crying,  "Farewell! — farewell,  Popinjay!" 

As  if  in  scornful  mockery  of  me ; 

And  on  I  hunted  him  from  tree  to  tree, 

Till  he  was  far,  all  out  of  sight,  away.  225 


Then  straightway  came  the  Nightingale  to  me, 

And  said,  Forsooth,  my  friend,  do  I  thank  thee, 

That  thou  wert  near  to  rescue  me ;  and  now, 

Unto  the  God  of  Love  I  make  a  vow, 

That  all  this  May  I  will  thy  songstress  be.  230 

207  How  that  she  cast  a  sigh  from  out  her  throat,   MS. 

216—25  Methought  that  he  did  then  start  up  anon, 
And  glad  was  I,  in  truth,  that  he  was  gone, 
And  ever  as  the  Cuckoo  flew  away 
He  cried  out  farewell,  farewell  Popinjay 
As  though  he  had  been  scorning  me  alone.  MS. 

227-8  And  "Friend"  she  said,  "I  thank  thee  gratefully 
That  thou  hast  been  my  rescue,  and  I  now  MS. 

229  I]  do  MS. 
917.17  TV  Q 



Well  satisfied,  I  thanked  her,  and  she  said, 

By  this  mishap  no  longer  be  dismayed, 

Though  thou  the  Cuckoo  heard,  ere  thou  heard'st  me ; 

Yet  if  I  live  it  shall  amended  be, 

When  next  May  comes,  if  I  am  not  afraid.  235 


And  one  thing  will  I  counsel  thee  als6, 
The  Cuckoo  trust  not  thou,  nor  his  Love's  saw ; 
All  that  she  said  is  an  outrageous  lie. 
Nay,  nothing  shall  me  bring  thereto,  quoth  I, 
For  Love,  and  it  hath  done  me  mighty  woe.  240 


Yea,  hath  it  ?  use,  quoth  she,  this  medicine ; 
This  May-time,  every  day  before  thou  dine, 
Go  look  on  the  fresh  daisy ;  then  say  I, 
Although  for  pain  thou  may'st  be  like  to  die, 
Thou  wilt  be  eased,  and  less  wilt  droop  and  pine.  245 


And  mind  always  that  thou  be  good  and  true, 
And  I  will  sing  one  song,  of  many  new, 
For  love  of  thee,  as  loud  as  I  may  cry ; 
And  then  did  she  begin  this  song  full  high, 
"Beshrew  all  them  that  are  in  love  untrue."  250 


And  soon  as  she  had  sung  it  to  the  end, 
Now  farewell,  quoth  she,  for  I  hence  must  wend ; 
And,  God  of  Love,  that  can  right  well  and  may, 
Send  unto  thee  as  mickle  joy  this  day, 
As  ever  he  to  Lover  yet  did  send.  255 


Thus  takes  the  Nightingale  her  leave  of  me  ; 
I  pray  to  God  with  her  always  to  be, 
And  joy  of  love  to  send  her  evermore ; 

231—2  I  gave  her  [  ?]  thanks  and  was  well  paid 

Yea,  said  she  then,  and  be  thou  not  dismayed  MS. 

237-8  Believe  thou  not  the  Cuckoo,  no,  no,  no ! 
For  he  hath  spoken  etc.   MS. 

243-5  On  the  fresh  daisy  go  and  cast  thine  eye 

And  though  for  woe  at  point  of  death  thou  lie 
'Twill  greatly  ease  thee,  and  thou  less  wilt  pine.   MS. 

246  mind]  look  MS. 


And  shield  us  from  the  Cuckoo  and  her  lore, 

For  there  is  not  so  false  a  bird  as  she.  260 


Forth  then  she  flew,  the  gentle  Nightingale, 
To  all  the  Birds  that  lodged  within  that  dale, 
And  gathered  each  and  all  into  one  place ; 
And  them  besought  to  hear  her  doleful  case, 
And  thus  it  was  that  she  began  her  tale.  265 


The  Cuckoo — 'tis  not  well  that  I  should  hide 
How  she  and  I  did  each  the  other  chide, 
And  without  ceasing,  since  it  was  daylight ; 
And  now  I  pray  you  all  to  do  me  right 
Of  that  false  Bird  whom  Love  can  not  abide.  270 


Then  spake  one  Bird,  and  full  assent  all  gave ; 
This  matter  asketh  counsel  good  as  grave, 
For  birds  we  are — all  here  together  brought ; 
And,  in  good  sooth,  the  Cuckoo  here  is  not ; 
And  therefore  we  a  Parliament  will  have.  275 


And  thereat  shall  the  Eagle  be  our  Lord, 
And  other  Peers  whose  names  are  on  record  ; 
A  summons  to  the  Cuckoo  shall  be  sent, 
And  judgment  there  be  given ;  or  that  intent 
Failing,  we  finally  shall  make  accord.  280 


And  all  this  shall  be  done,  without  a  nay, 
The  morrow  after  Saint  Valentine's  day, 
Under  a  maple  that  is  well  beseen, 
Before  the  chamber- window  of  the  Queen, 
At  Woodstock,  on  the  meadow  green  and  gay.  285 


She  thanked  them ;  and  then  her  leave  she  took, 

And  flew  into  a  hawthorn  by  that  brook ; 

And  there  she  sate  and  sung — upon  that  tree — 

'Tor  term  of  life  Love  shall  have  hold  of  me" — 

So  loudly,  that  I  with  that  song  awoke.  290 

260  MS.  ends  here  and  Finis  is  written. 


Unlearned  Book  and  rude,  as  well  I  know, 

For  beauty  thou  hast  none,  nor  eloquence, 

Who  did  on  thee  the  hardiness  bestow 

To  appear  before  my  Lady  ?  but  a  sense 

Thou  surely  hast  of  her  benevolence,  295 

Whereof  her  hourly  bearing  proof  doth  give ; 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Alas,  poor  Book !  for  thy  unworthiness, 

To  show  to  her  some  pleasant  meanings  writ 

In  winning  words,  since  through  her  gentiless,  300 

Thee  she  accepts  as  for  her  service  fit ! 

Oh !  it  repents  me  I  have  neither  wit 

Nor  leisure  unto  thee  more  worth  to  give ; 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Beseech  her  meekly  with  all  lowliness,  3°5 

Though  I  be  far  from  her  I  reverence, 

To  think  upon  my  truth  and  stedfastness, 

And  to  abridge  my  sorrow's  violence, 

Caused  by  the  wish,  as  knows  your  sapience, 

She  of  her  liking  proof  to  me  would  give ;  310 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 


Pleasure's  Aurora,  Day  of  gladsomeness ! 
Luna  by  night,  with  heavenly  influence 
Illumined !  root  of  beauty  and  goodnesse, 
Write,  and  allay,  by  your  beneficence,  315 

My  sighs  breathed  forth  in  silence, — comfort  give ! 
Since  of  aD  good  you  are  the  best  alive. 


[Written  1801. — Same  dates  of  publication  as  II.] 

NEXT  morning  Troilus  began  to  clear 
His  eyes  from  sleep,  at  the  first  break  of  day, 
And  unto  Pandarus,  his  own  Brother  dear, 
For  love  of  God,  full  piteously  did  say, 
We  must  the  Palace  see  of  Cresida ;  5 

300  gentiless     1842:  gentleness     1841 

HI.      TBOILTJS    AND    CBESIDA.        BXTBACT    FROM    CHAUCER,    1842. 


For  since  we  yet  may  have  no  other  feast, 
Let  us  behold  her  Palace  at  the  least ! 

And  therewithal  to  cover  his  intent 

A  cause  he  found  into  the  Town  to  go, 

And  they  right  forth  to  Cresid's  Palace  went ;  10 

But,  Lord,  this  simple  Troilus  was  woe, 

Him  thought  his  sorrowful  heart  would  break  in  two ; 

For  when  he  saw  her  doors  fast  bolted  all, 

Well  nigh  for  sorrow  down  he  'gan  to  fall. 

Therewith  when  this  true  Lover  'gan  behold,  15 

How  shut  was  every  window  of  the  place, 

Like  frost  he  thought  his  heart  was  icy  cold ; 

For  which,  with  changed,  pale,  and  deadly  face, 

Without  word  uttered,  forth  he  'gan  to  pace ; 

And  on  his  purpose  bent  so  fast  to  ride,  20 

That  no  wight  his  continuance  espied. 

Then  said  he  thus, — 0  Palace  desolate! 

O  house  of  houses,  once  so  richly  dight ! 

O  Palace  empty  and  disconsolate ! 

Thou  lamp  of  which  extinguished  is  the  light ;  25 

O  Palace  whilom  day  that  now  art  night, 

Thou  ought'st  to  fall  and  I  to  die ;  since  she 

Is  gone  who  held  us  both  in  sovereignty. 

O,  of  all  houses  once  the  crowned  boast ! 

Palace  illumined  with  the  sun  of  bliss ;  30 

O  ring  of  which  the  ruby  now  is  lost, 

O  cause  of  woe,  that  cause  has  been  of  bliss : 

Yet,  since  I  may  no  better,  would  I  kiss 

Thy  cold  doors ;  but  I  dare  not  for  this  rout ; 

Farewell,  thou  shrine  of  which  the  Saint  is  out !  35 

Therewith  he  cast  on  Pandarus  an  eye, 

With  changed  face,  and  piteous  to  behold ; 

And  when  he  might  his  time  aright  espy, 

Aye  as  he  rode,  to  Pandarus  he  told 

Both  his  new  sorrow  and  his  joys  of  old  40 

So  piteously,  and  with  so  dead  a  hue, 

That  every  wight  might  on  his  sorrow  rue. 

12  break     1842:  burst     1841  32  has     1842:  hast     1841          36  an 

1842:  his     1841 


Forth  from  the  spot  he  rideth  up  and  down, 

And  everything  to  his  remember&nce 

Came  as  he  rode  by  places  of  the  town  45 

Where  he  had  felt  such  perfect  pleasure  once. 

Lo,  yonder  saw  I  mine  own  Lady  dance, 

And  in  that  Temple  she  with  her  bright  eyes, 

My  Lady  dear,  first  bound  me  captive- wise. 

And  yonder  with  joy-smitten  heart  have  I  5° 

Heard  my  own  Cresid's  laugh ;  and  once  at  play 

I  yonder  saw  her  eke  full  blissfully ; 

And  yonder  once  she  unto  me  'gan  say — 

Now,  my  sweet  Troilus,  love  me  well,  I  pray! 

And  there  so  graciously  did  me  behold,  55 

That  hers  unto  the  death  my  heart  I  hold. 

And  at  the  corner  of  that  self-same  house 

Heard  I  my  most  beloved  Lady  dear, 

So  womanly,  with  voice  melodious 

Singing  so  well,  so  goodly,  and  so  clear,  60 

That  in  my  soul  methinks  I  yet  do  hear 

The  blissful  sound ;  and  in  that  very  place 

My  Lady  first  me  took  unto  her  grace. 

0  blissful  God  of  Love !  then  thus  he  cried, 

When  I  the  process  have  in  memory,  65 

How  thou  hast  wearied  me  on  every  side, 

Men  thence  a  book  might  make,  a  history ; 

What  need  to  seek  a  conquest  over  me, 

Since  I  am  wholly  at  thy  will  ?   what  joy 

Hast  thou  thy  own  liege  subjects  to  destroy  ?  70 

Dread  Lord !  so  fearful  when  provoked,  thine  ire 
Well  hast  thou  wreaked  on  me  by  pain  and  grief; 
Now  mercy,  Lord !  thou  know'st  well  I  desire 

49  First  caught  me  captive  my  true  Lady  dear.  MS. 
50-2  And  yonder  have  I  heard  full  lustily 

My  dear  heart  Cresseid  laugh ;  and  yonder  play 

I  saw  her  also  once  etc.  MS. 
55  And  here  so  goodly  did  she  me  behold  MS. 

57  corner  there  of  yonder  house  MS.  corr.  to  text  58  most]  own   MS. 

62  Yonder  in  that  same  place    MS.  68  on  me  to  seek  a  victory  MS. 

71-2  Well  hast  thou  Lord!  on  me  avenged  thine  ire, 

Thou  mighty  God,  Sovereign  of  joy  and  grief;  MS. 


Thy  grace  above  all  pleasures  first  and  chief; 

And  live  and  die  I  will  in  thy  belief;  75 

For  which  I  ask  for  guerdon  but  one  boon, 

That  Cresida  again  thou  send  me  soon. 

Constrain  her  heart  as  quickly  to  return, 

As  thou  dost  mine  with  longing  her  to  see, 

Then  know  I  well  that  she  would  not  sojourn.  80 

Now,  blissful  Lord,  so  cruel  do  not  be 

Unto  the  blood  of  Troy,  I  pray  of  thee, 

As  Juno  was  unto  the  Theban  blood, 

From  whence  to  Thebes  came  griefs  in  multitude. 

And  after  this  he  to  the  gate  did  go  85 

Whence  Cresid  rode,  as  if  in  haste  she  was ; 

And  up  and  down  there  went,  and  to  and  fro, 

And  to  himself  full  oft  he  said,  alas ! 

From  hence  my  hope  and  solace  forth  did  pass. 

0  would  the  blissful  God  now  for  his  joy,  90 

1  might  her  see  again  coming  to  Troy ! 

And  up  to  yonder  hill  was  I  her  guide ; 

Alas,  and  there  I  took  of  her  my  leave ; 

Yonder  I  saw  her  to  her  Father  ride, 

For  very  grief  of  which  my  heart  shall  cleave ; —         95 

And  hither  home  I  came  when  it  was  eve ; 

And  here  I  dwell  an  outcast  from  all  joy, 

And  shall,  unless  I  see  her  soon  in  Troy. 

And  of  himself  did  he  imagine  oft, 

That  he  was  blighted,  pale,  and  waxen  less  100 

Than  he  was  wont ;  and  that  in  whispers  soft 

Men  said,  what  may  it  be,  can  no  one  guess 

Why  Troilus  hath  all  this  heaviness  ? 

All  which  he  of  himself  conceited  wholly 

Out  of  his  weakness  and  his  melancholy.  105 

Another  time  he  took  into  his  head, 

That  every  wight,  who  in  the  way  passed  by, 

Had  of  him  ruth,  and  fancied  that  they  said, 

I  am  right  sorry  Troilus  will  die : 

And  thus  a  day  or  two  drove  wearily ;  no 

77  That  Cressida  thou  send  me  again  but  soon  MS.  78  quickly] 

strongly  MS.  98  And  shall  till  I  may  see  her  back  in  Troy.  MS. 


As  ye  have  heard ;  such  life  'gan  he  to  lead 
As  one  that  standeth  betwixt  hope  and  dread. 

For  which  it  pleased  him  in  his  songs  to  show 

The  occasion  of  his  woe,  as  best  he  might ; 

And  made  a  fitting  song,  of  words  but  few,  115 

Somewhat  his  woeful  heart  to  make  more  light ; 

And  when  he  was  removed  from  all  men's  sight, 

With  a  soft  voice,  he  of  his  Lady  dear, 

That  absent  was,  'gan  sing  as  ye  may  hear. 

0  star,  of  which  I  lost  have  all  the  light,  120 
With  a  sore  heart  well  ought  I  to  bewail, 

That  ever  dark  in  torment,  night  by  night, 

Toward  my  death  with  wind  I  steer  and  sail ; 

For  which  upon  the  tenth  night  if  thou  fail 

With  thy  bright  beams  to  guide  me  but  one  hour,      125 

My  ship  and  me  Charybdis  will  devour. 

As  soon  as  he  this  song  had  thus  sung  through, 

He  fell  again  into  his  sorrows  old ; 

And  every  night,  as  was  his  wont  to  do, 

Troilus  stood  the  bright  moon  to  behold ;  130 

And  all  his  trouble  to  the  moon  he  told, 

And  said :  I  wis,  when  thou  art  horn'd  anew, 

1  shall  be  glad  if  all  the  world  be  true. 

Thy  horns  were  old  as  now  upon  that  morrow, 

When  hence  did  journey  my  bright  Lady  dear,  135 

That  cause  is  of  my  torment  and  my  sorrow ; 

For  which,  oh,  gentle  Luna,  bright  and  clear, 

For  love  of  God,  run  fast  about  thy  sphere ; 

For  when  tliy  horns  begin  once  more  to  spring, 

Then  shall  she  come,  that  with  her  bliss  may  bring.     140 

The  day  is  more,  and  longer  every  night 

Than  they  were  wont  to  be — for  he  thought  so ; 

And  that  the  sun  did  take  his  course  not  right, 

By  longer  way  than  he  was  wont  to  go ; 

And  said,  I  am  in  constant  dread  I  trow,  145 

That  Phaeton  his  son  is  yet  alive, 

His  too  fond  father's  car  amiss  to  drive. 

118  soft  voice     1841 :  soft  night  voice     1842-50 
138  about]  above  1841-50 


Upon  the  walls  fast  also  would  he  walk, 

To  the  end  that  he  the  Grecian  host  might  see ; 

And  ever  thus  he  to  himself  would  talk : —  150 

Lo !  yonder  is  my  own  bright  Lady  free ; 

Or  yonder  is  it  that  the  tents  must  be ; 

And  thence  does  come  this  air  which  is  so  sweet, 

That  in  my  soul  I  feel  the  joy  of  it. 

And  certainly  this  wind,  that  more  and  more  155 

By  moments  thus  increaseth  in  my  face, 

Is  of  my  Lady's  sighs  heavy  and  sore ; 

I  prove  it  thus ;  for  in  no  other  space 

Of  all  this  town,  save  only  in  this  place, 

Feel  I  a  wind,  that  soundeth  so  like  pain ;  160 

It  saith,  Alas,  why  severed  are  we  twain  ? 

A  weary  while  in  pain  he  tosseth  thus, 

Till  fully  passed  and  gone  was  the  ninth  night ; 

And  ever  at  his  side  stood  Pandarus, 

Who  busily  made  use  of  all  his  might  165 

To  comfort  him,  and  make  his  heart  more  light ; 

Giving  him  always  hope,  that  she  the  morrow 

Of  the  tenth  day  will  come,  and  end  his  sorrow. 

151  my     1842:  mine     1841 




The  class  of  Beggars,  to  which  the  Old  Man  here  described  belongs,  will 
probably  soon  be  extinct.  It  consisted  of  poor,  and,  mostly,  old  and  infirm 
persons,  who  confined  themselves  to  a  stated  round  in  their  neighbour- 
hood, and  had  certain  fixed  days,  on  which,  at  different  houses,  they 
regularly  received  alms,  sometimes  in  money,  but  mostly  in  provisions. 

[Composed  1797. — Published  1800.] 

I  SAW  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk ; 

And  he  was  seated,  by  the  highway  side, 

On  a  low  structure  of  rude  masonry 

Built  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  hill,  that  they 

Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough  road  5 

May  thence  remount  at  ease.  The  aged  Man 

Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth  stone 

That  overlays  the  pile ;  and,  from  a  bag 

All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames, 

He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one ;  10 

And  scanned  them  with  a  fixed  and  serious  look 

Of  idle  computation.  In  the  sun, 

Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 

Surrounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills, 

He  sat,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude :  15 

And  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand, 

That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste, 

Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 

Fell  on  the  ground ;  and  the  small  mountain  birds, 

Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal,  20 

Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I  known ;  and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now ; 
He  travels  on,  a  solitary  Man, 
So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him  25 

I.     THE  BEGQAB  MS.     The  words  A  Description  added  to  title  1800- 20 » 
4  Built]  Placed  MS.  15  sat,  and  ate     1805:  sate,  and  eat  1800-2 


The  sauntering  Horseman  throws  not  with  a  slack 

And  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground, 

But  stops, — that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 

Within  the  old  Man's  hat ;  nor  quits  him  so, 

But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein,  30 

Watches  the  aged  Beggar  with  a  look 

Sidelong,  and  half-reverted.  She  who  tends 

The  toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 

She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 

The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work,  35 

And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 

The  post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  overtake 

The  aged  Beggar  in  the  woody  lane, 

Shouts  to  him  from  behind ;  and,  if  thus  warned 

The  old  man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  boy  40 

Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  roadside, 

And  passes  gently  by,  without  a  curse 

Upon  his  lips  or  anger  at  his  heart. 

He  travels  on,  a  solitary  Man ; 

His  age  has  no  companion.   On  the  ground  45 

His  eyes  are  turned,  and,  as  he  moves  along, 
They  move  along  the  gound ;  and,  evermore, 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale, 
And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth  50 

Is  all  his  prospect.   Thus,  from  day  to  day. 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  for  ever  on  the  gound, 
He  plies  his  weary  journey ;  seeing  still, 
And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw, 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  which,  in  one  track,  55 

The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot-wheel  have  left 

26-7  so  1837:  The  sauntering  horseman-traveller  does  not  throw  With 
MS.,  1800-32  28-9  safely  .  .  .  Within]  lodge  the  copper  coin  Safe  in 

MS.  31  80  1827:   Towards  the  aged  Beggar  turns  a  look,   MS.,  1800- 

20  39  thus  warned     1827:  perchance     MS.,  1800-20 

48-50  Instead  of  Nature's  fair  variety 

Her  ample  scope  of  hill  and  dale,  of  clouds 
And  the  blue  sky,  the  same  short  span  of  earth  MS. 
51  Is  all  his  prospect.   When  the  little  birds 
Flit  over  him,  if  their  quick  shadows  strike 
Across  his  path  he  does  not  lift  his  head 
Like  one  whose  thoughts  have  been  unsettled.    So  MS. 
54  seldom     1827:  never     MS.,  1800-20 


Impressed  on  the  white  road, — in  the  same  line, 

At  distance  still  the  same.   Poor  Traveller! 

His  staff  trails  with  him ;  scarcely  do  his  feet 

Disturb  the  summer  dust ;  he  is  so  still  60 

In  look  and  motion,  that  the  cottage  curs, 

Ere  he  has  passed  the  door,  will  turn  away, 

Weary  of  barking  at  him.   Boys  and  girls, 

The  vacant  and  the  busy,  maids  and  youths, 

The  urchins  newly  breeched — all  pass  him  by :  65 

Him  even  the  slow-paced  waggon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  Man  useless — Statesmen !  ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye 
Who  have  a  broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances  ;  ye  proud,  7° 

Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ye  contemplate 
Your  talents,  power,  or  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A  burthen  of  the  earth!  JTis  Nature's  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute,  75 

The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good — a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.  Then  be  assured 
That  least  of  all  can  aught — that  ever  owned  80 

The  heaven-regarding  eye  and  front  sublime 
Which  man  is  born  to — sink,  howe'er  depressed, 
So  low  as  to  be  scorned  without  a  sin ; 

59  his  slow  footsteps  scarce    MS. 
61-3  .  .  .  that  the  miller's  dog 

Is  tired  of  barking  at  him     MS. 
62  has     1837:  have    MS.,  1800-32 
67-70  .  .  .  useless.  Not  perhaps 

Less  useful  than  the  smooth  (red)  and  portly  squire 

Who  with  his  steady  coachman,  steady  steeds 

All  slick  and  bright  with  comfortable  gloss 

Doth  in  his  broad  glass'd  chariot  drive  along 

(Who  (Heaven  forbid  that  he  should  want  his  praise) 

Lives  by  his  [  ?]  and  spreads  his  name  abroad.)  Alf.  MS. 
72  or     1837:  and  1800-32 
7&-8S  so  1837:  .  .  .  linked.  While  thus  he  creeps 

From  door  to  door,  the  villagers  in  him  MS.,  1800-32 
80-9  Dismantled  as  he  is  of  limbs  to  act 

Almost  of  sense  to  feel,  by  Nature's  self 
Long  banish'd  from  the  cares  and  the  concerns 


Without  offence  to  God  cast  out  of  view ; 

Like  the  dry  remnant  of  a  garden-flower  85 

Whose  seeds  ar,e  shed,  or  as  an  implement 

Worn  out  and  worthless.  While  from  door  to  door, 

This  old  Man  creeps,  the  villagers  in  him 

Behold  a  record  which  together  binds 

Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity  90 

Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 

The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years, 

And  that  half- wisdom  half-experience  gives, 

Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 

To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares.  95 

Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 

Hamlets  and  thinly-scattered  villages, 

Where'er  the  aged  Beggar  takes  his  rounds, 

The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 

To  acts  of  love ;  and  habit  does  the  work  100 

Of  reason ;  yet  prepares  that  after- joy 

Which  reason  cherishes.  And  thus  the  soul, 

By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued, 

Doth  find  herself  insensibly  disposed 

To  virtue  and  true  goodness.  Some  there  are,  105 

By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds, 

And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 

And  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 

Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle :  even  such  minds 

In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  Being,  no 

Or  from  like  wanderer,  haply  have  received 

(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 

Business  and  reciprocities  of  life 
His  very  name  forgotten  among  those 
By  whom  he  lives,  while  thus  from  house  to  house 
He  creeps,  the  villagers  behold  in  him 
A  living  record  that  together  ties  Alf.  MS. 
104  herself     1832:  itself  MS.,  1800-27 
107-10  And  meditative,  in  which  reason  falls 

Like  a  strong  radiance  of  the  setting  sun 
On  each  minutest  feeling  of  the  heart, 
Illuminates,  and  to  their  view  brings  forth 
In  one  harmonious  prospect,  minds  like  these 
In  childhood   Alf.  MS. 

109  so  1827:  ...  minds  like  these     1800-20:  Will  spread  and  grow  and 
kindle ;  minds  like  these  MS.  Ill  *o  1827:  This  helpless  Wanderer, 

have  perchance  received  1800-20;  .  .  .  did  .  .  .  receive    MS. 


Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do!) 

That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought, 

In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a  world  115 

Where  want  and  sorrow  were.  The  easy  man 

Who  sits  at  his  own  door, — and,  like  the  pear 

That  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall, 

Feeds  in  the  sunshine ;  the  robust  and  young, 

The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live  120 

Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a  little  grove 

Of  their  own  kindred ; — all  behold  in  him 

A  silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 

Must  needs  impress  a  transitory  thought 

Of  self-congratulation,  to  the  heart  125 

Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 

His  charters  and  exemptions ;  and,  perchance, 

Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 

And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 

His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up  130 

The  respite  of  the  season,  he,  at  least, 

And  'tis  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  felt. 

Yet  further. Many,  I  believe,  there  are 

Who  live  a  life  of  virtuous  decency, 

Men  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel  135 

No  self-reproach ;  who  of  the  moral  law 

Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 

Are  strict  observers ;  and  not  negligent 

In  acts  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell, 

Their  kindred,  and  the  children  of  their  blood.  140 

Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace! 

— But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor ; 

Go,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here 

In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds, 

And  these  inevitable  charities,  145 

Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul  ? 

128  Although  to  each  he  may  not  give  the  strength  MS. 
133-5  Not  small  the  number,  I  believe,  of  those 

Who  hear  the  decalogue  of  God,  and  feel  MS. 
139  so  1827:  Meanwhile,  in  any  tenderness  of  heart 

Or  act  of  love  .  .  .  live,  [dwell     1800-20]  MS.,  1800-20 
143—66  If  such  there  be  whose  virtues  have  attained 
This  point,  demand  of  him  if  there  be  here 
Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  souL 


No — man  is  dear  to  man ;  the  poorest  poor 

Long  for  some  moments  in  a  weary  life 

When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been, 

Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers-out  150 

Of  some  small  blessings ;  have  been  kind  to  such 

As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause, 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 

— Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  Being  known, 

My  neighbour,  when  with  punctual  care,  each  week,        155 

Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 

By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 

Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 

Of  this  old  Mendicant,  and,  from  her  door 

Returning  with  exhilarated  heart,  160 

Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  heaven. 

Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head! 
And  while  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone,  165 

Unblamed,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  the  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him :  and,  while  life  is  his, 
Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts.  170 

— Then  let  him  pass,  a  blessing  on  his  head ! 
And,  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  valleys ;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows ; 
And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath          175 
Beat  his  grey  locks  against  his  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 
May  never  HOUSE,  misnamed  of  INDUSTBY, 
Make  him  a  captive! — for  that  pent-up  din,  180 

Oh  by  the  joy  which  one  good  human  knows 
My  neighbour,  when  MS. 
156-7  .  .  .  albeit  poor 

And  scantly  fed  she  from  her  chest  of  meal  MS. 

157  store     1827:  chest     1800-20.  161/2  Oh,  by  that  widow's  hope  I 

answer  No!  MS.  164  borne    1827:  led  MS.,  1800-20  174/5 

Waste  not  on  him  your  busy  tenderness  Alf.  MS. 


Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air, 

Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age ! 

Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes ; 

And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not, 

The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds.  185 

Few  are  his  pleasures :  if  his  eyes  have  now 

Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  upon  earth 

That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 

The  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun, 

Rising  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least  190 

Find  a  free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs, 

And  let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 

Beneath  the  trees,  or  on  a  grassy  bank 

Of  highway  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 

Share  his  chance-gathered  meal ;  and,  finally,  195 

As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived, 

So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die ! 


[Composed  1800. — Published  July  21,  1800  (Morning  Post);  ed.  1815.] 

'Tis  not  for  the  unfeeling,  the  falsely  refined, 
The  squeamish  in  taste,  and  the  narrow  of  mind, 
And  the  small  critic  wielding  his  delicate  pen, 
That  I  sing  of  old  Adam,  the  pride  of  old  men. 

He  dwells  in  the  centre  of  London's  wide  Town ;  5 

His  staff  is  a  sceptre — his  grey  hairs  a  crown ; 

186-9  so  1837:  ...  if  his  eyes  so  long 

Familiar  with  the  earth  almost  have  looked 
Their  farewell  on  the  horizontal  sun  MS. 

...  if  his  eyes,  which  now 
Have  been  so  long  familiar  with  the  earth, 
No  more  behold  etc.     1800-5 

...  if  his  eyes  have  now 
Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  on  the  earth 
That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 
The  countenance  etc.  as  text     1815-32 
193  on  a     1837:  by  the     1800-32 
II.    1—12  There's  an  old  man  in  London,  the  prime  of  old  men, 

You  may  hunt  for  his  match  through  ten  thousand  and  ten; 

Of  prop  or  of  staff,  does  he  walk,  does  he  run, 

No  more  need  has  he  than  a  flow'r  of  the  sun.   1800 


And  his  bright  eyes  look  brighter,  set  off  by  the  streak 
Of  the  unfaded  rose  that  still  blooms  on  his  cheek. 

'Mid  the  dews,  in  the  sunshine  of  morn, — 'mid  the  joy 
Of  the  fields,  he  collected  that  bloom,  when  a  boy ;  10 

That  countenance  there  fashioned,  which,  spite  of  a  stain 
That  his  life  hath  received,  to  the  last  will  remain. 

A  Farmer  he  was ;  and  his  house  far  and  near 

Was  the  boast  of  the  country  for  excellent  cheer ; 

How  oft  have  I  heard  in  sweet  Tilsbury  Vale  15 

Of  the  silver-rimmed  horn  whence  he  dealt  his  mild  ale ! 

Yet  Adam  was  far  as  the  farthest  from  ruin, 

His  fields  seemed  to  know  what  their  Master  was  doing ; 

And  turnips,  and  corn-land,  and  meadow,  and  lea, 

All  caught  the  infection — as  generous  as  he.  20 

Yet  Adam  prized  little  the  feast  and  the  bowl, — 
The  fields  better  suited  the  ease  of  his  soul : 
He  strayed  through  the  fields  like  an  indolent  wight, 
The  quiet  of  nature  was  Adam's  delight. 

For  Adam  was  simple  in  thought ;  and  the  poor,  25 

Familiar  with  him,  made  an  inn  of  his  door  : 
He  gave  them  the  best  that  he  had ;  or,  to  say 
What  less  may  mislead  you,  they  took  it  away. 

Thus  thirty  smooth  years  did  he  thrive  on  his  farm : 

The  Genius  of  plenty  preserved  him  from  harm :  30 

At  length,  what  to  most  is  a  season  of  sorrow, 

His  means  are  run  out, — he  must  beg,  or  must  borrow. 

7-8  so  1837 :  Erect  as  a  sunflpwer  he  stands,  and  the  streak 

Of  the  unfaded  rose  is  expressed  on  his  cheek.    1815-20; 
so  1827-32,  but  still  enlivens  his  cheek. 

11  so  1840:  There  fashion'd  that  countenance,  which,  in  spite  of  a  stain 
1816-37  13  house  1816:  name  1800  14  boast  1816:  Top  1800 
16-16  so  1827:  so  1816-20  but  good  for  mild 

Not  less  than  the  skill  of  an  Exchequer  Teller 
Could  count  the  shoes  worn  on  the  steps  of  his  cellar.     1800 
10  corn-land     1816:  plough' d  land     1800         21  feast  and     1816:  noise  of 

28/9  On  the  works  of  the  world,  on  the  bustle  and  sound, 
Seated  still  in  his  boat,  he  look'd  leisurely  round ; 
And  if  now  and  then  he  his  hands  did  employ, 
'Twas  with  vanity,  wonder,  and  infantine  joy.     1800 
32  are     1816:  were     1800 

917.17  IV  B 


To  the  neighbours  he  went, — all  were  free  with  their  money ; 
For  his  hive  had  so  long  been  replenished  with  honey, 
That  they  dreamt  not  of  dearth ; — He  continued  his  rounds,    35 
Knocked  here — and  knocked  there,  pounds  still  adding  to  pounds. 

He  paid  what  he  could  with  his  ill-gotten  pelf, 

And  something,  it  might  be,  reserved  for  himself: 

Then  (what  is  too  true)  without  hinting  a  word, 

Turned  his  back  on  the  country — and  off  like  a  bird.  40 

You  lift  up  your  eyes ! — but  I  guess  that  you  frame 
A  judgment  too  harsh  of  the  sin  and  the  shame ; 
In  him  it  was  scarcely  a  business  of  art, 
For  this  he  did  all  in  the  ease  of  his  heart. 

To  London — a  sad  emigration  I  ween —  45 

With  his  grey  hairs  he  went  from  the  brook  and  the  green ; 
And  there,  with  small  wealth  but  his  legs  and  his  hands, 
As  lonely  he  stood  as  a  crow  on  the  sands. 

All  trades,  as  need  was,  did  old  Adam  assume, — 

Served  as  stable-boy,  errand-boy,  porter,  and  groom ;  50 

But  nature  is  gracious,  necessity  kind, 

And,  in  spite  of  the  shame  that  may  lurk  in  his  mind, 

He  seems  ten  birthdays  younger,  is  green  and  is  stout ; 
Twice  as  fast  as  before  does  his  blood  run  about ; 
You  would  say  that  each  hair  of  his  beard  was  alive,  55 

And  his  fingers  as  busy  as  bees  in  a  hive. 

For  he's  not  like  an  Old  Man  that  leisurely  goes 

About  work  that  he  knows,  in  a  track  that  he  knows ; 

But  often  his  mind  is  compelled  to  demur, 

And  you  guess  that  the  more  then  his  body  must  stir.  60 

34-5  so  1815:  For  they  all  still  imagined  his  hive  full  of  honey; 

Like  a  Church- warden,  Adam  continued  his  rounds,  1800 
37  his    1837:  this    1815-32  38  reserved  for    1815:  he  kept  to    1800 

41-2  so  1820:  so  1815  but  and  (41)  for  but 

You  lift  up  your  eyes,  "O  the  merciless  Jew!" 

But  in  truth  he  was  never  more  cruel  than  you;     1800 
43  scarcely    1815:  scarce  e'en    1800          44  ease    1815:  ease    1800          46 
brook     1815:  lawn     1800  48  so  1815:  He  stood  all  alone  like     1800 

49  need    1800,  1827:  needs    1815-20          50  Served  as    1815:  Both    1800 
51-3  so  1815:  You'd  think  it  the  life  of  a  Devil  in  H— 1, 

But  nature  was  kind,  and  with  Adam  'twas  well. 

He's  ten  birthdays  younger,  he's  green,  and  he's  stout,    1 800 
68  work  that  he  knows     1815:  ...  does     1800 


In  the  throng  of  the  town  like  a  stranger  is  he, 
Like  one  whose  own  country's  far  over  the  sea ; 
And  Nature,  while  through  the  great  city  he  hies, 
Full  ten  times  a  day  takes  his  heart  by  surprise. 

This  gives  him  the  fancy  of  one  that  is  young,  65 

More  of  soul  in  his  face  than  of  words  on  his  tongue ; 
Like  a  maiden  of  twenty  he  trembles  and  sighs, 
And  tears  of  fifteen  will  come  into  his  eyes. 

What's  a  tempest  to  him,  or  the  dry  parching  heats  ? 

Yet  he  watches  the  clouds  that  pass  over  the  streets ;  70 

With  a  look  of  such  earnestness  often  will  stand, 

You  might  think  he'd  twelve  reapers  at  work  in  the  Strand. 

Where  proud  Co  vent-garden,  in  desolate  hours 
Of  snow  and  hoar-frost,  spreads  her  fruits  and  her  flowers, 
Old  Adam  will  smile  at  the  pains  that  have  made  75 

Poor  winter  look  fine  in  such  strange  masquerade. 

'Mid  coaches  and  chariots,  a  waggon  of  straw, 

Like  a  magnet,  the  heart  of  old  Adam  can  draw ; 

With  a  thousand  soft  pictures  his  memory  will  teem, 

And  his  hearing  is  touched  with  the  sounds  of  a  dream.          80 

Up  the  Haymarket  hill  he  oft  whistles  his  way, 
Thrusts  his  hands  in  a  waggon,  and  smells  at  the  hay ; 
He  thinks  of  the  fields  he  so  often  hath  mown, 
And  is  happy  as  if  the  rich  freight  were  his  own. 

68  will     1800,  1820:  have     1815  71  will     1815:  he'll     1800 

73-6  so  1837:  so  1815-32,  but  fruit  for  fruits 

Where  proud  Covent  Garden,  in  frost  and  in  snow, 
Spreads  her  fruit  and  her  flow'rs,  built  up  row  after  row ; 
Old  Adam  will  point  with  his  finger  and  say, 
To  them  that  stand  by,  "I've  seen  better  than  they."     1800 
76/7  Where  the  apples  are  heap'd  on  the  barrows  in  piles, 
You  see  him  stop  short,  he  looks  long,  and  he  smiles ; 
He  looks,  and  he  smiles,  and  a  Poet  might  spy 
The  image  of  fifty  green  fields  in  his  eye.    1800 

82  so  1837 :  in  the  waggons,  and  smells  to   1800 ;  in  the  Waggon,  and  smells 
at     1815-32  83  hath     1815:  has     1800  84  so  1815:  And 

sometimes  he  dreams  that  the  hay  is     1800 


But  chiefly  to  Smithfield  he  loves  to  repair, —  85 

If  you  pass  by  at  morning,  you'll  meet  with  him  there. 
The  breath  of  the  cows  you  may  see  him  inhale, 
And  his  heart  all  the  while  is  in  Tilsbury  Vale. 

Now  farewell,  old  Adam !  when  low  thou  art  laid, 
May  one  blade  of  grass  spring  up  over  thy  head ;  90 

And  I  hope  that  thy  grave,  wheresoever  it  be, 
Will  hear  the  wind  sigh  through  the  leaves  of  a  tree. 


[Composed  1804. — Published  1807.] 

THERE  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks,  like  many  more,  from  cold  and  rain ; 
And,  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine, 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  'tis  out, again! 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm,       5 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distrest, 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm, 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  Thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I  passed 

And  recognised  it,  though  an  altered  form,  10 

Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast, 

And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 

I  stopped,  a|id  said  with  inly-muttered  voice, 

"It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold : 

This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice,  15 

But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

4 'The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 

It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay ; 

Stiff  in  its  members,  withered,  changed  of  hue." 

And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  grey.  20 

III.     2-4  wet  and  cold  .  .  .  sun  it  doth  itself  unfold  MS.  4  himself 

1837:  itself    1807-32  5-7  coming  down  in  swarms  .  .  .  harms.  MS. 

17  cheer]  bless  MS. 


To  be  a  Prodigal's  Favourite — then,  worse  truth, 
A  miser's  Pensioner — behold  our  lot ! 
O  Man,  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not ! 



[Composed  1800.— Published  1800.] 

O  NOW  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine, 
And  the  skill  which  he  learned  on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne, 
Then  the  Muses  might  deal  with  me  just  as  they  chose, 
For  I'd  take  my  last  leave  both  of  verse  and  of  prose. 

What  feats  would  I  work  with  my  magical  hand !  5 

Book-learning  and  books  should  be  banished  the  land: 
And,  for  hunger  and  thirst  and  such  troublesome  calls, 
Every  ale-house  should  then  have  a  feast  on  its  walls. 

The  traveller  would  hang  his  wet  clothes  on  a  chair ; 
Let  them  smoke,  let  them  burn,  not  a  straw  would  he  care!  10 
For  the  Prodigal  Son,  Joseph's  Dream  and  his  sheaves, 
Oh,  what  would  they  be  to  my  tale  of  two  Thieves  ? 

The  One,  yet  unbreeched,  is  not  three  birthdays  old, 

His  Grandsire  that  age  more  than  thirty  times  told ; 

There  are  ninety  good  seasons  of  fair  and  foul  weather  15 

Between  them,  and  both  go  a-pilfering  together. 

With  chips  is  the  carpenter  strewing  his  floor  ? 

Is  a  cart-load  of  turf  at  an  old  woman's  door  ? 

Old  Daniel  his  hand  to  the  treasure  will  slide ! 

And  his  Grandson's  as  busy  at  work  by  his  side,  20 

IV.   1-6     Oh !  now  that  the  boxwood  and  graver  were  mine, 
Of  the  Poet  who  lives  on  the  banks  of  the  Tyne ! 
Who  has  plied  his  rude  tools  with  more  fortunate  toil 
Than  Reynolds  e'er  brought  to  his  canvas  and  oil. 

Then  Books,  and  Book-learning,  I'd  ring  out  your  knell, 
The  Vicar  should  scarce  know  an  A  from  an  L,   MS. 

13  so  1820:  Little  Dan  is  unbreech'd — he  is     1800-15  15  There  are 

1802:  There's    MS.,  1800        16  a-pilfering   1837:  a-stealing  MS.,  1800-32 
18  turf    1827:  peats    MS.,  1800-20 


Old  Daniel  begins ;  he  stops  short — and  his  eye, 
Through  the  lost  look  of  dotage,  is  cunning  and  sly: 
'Tis  a  look  which  at  this  time  is  hardly  his  own, 
But  tells  a  plain  tale  of  the  days  that  are  flown. 

He  once  had  a  heart  which  was  moved  by  the  wires  25 

Of  manifold  pleasures  and  many  desires : 

And  what  if  he  cherished  his  purse  ?  'Twas  no  more 

Than  treading  a  path  trod  by  thousands  before. 

'Twas  a  path  trod  by  thousands ;  but  Daniel  is  one 

Who  went  something  farther  than  others  have  gone,  30 

And  now  with  old  Daniel  you  see  how  it  fares ; 

You  see  to  what  end  he  has  brought  his  grey  hairs. 

The  pair  sally  forth  hand  in  hand:  ere  the  sun 

Has  peered  o'er  the  beeches,  their  work  is  begun : 

And  yet,  into  whatever  sin  they  may  fall,  35 

This  child  but  half  knows  it,  and  that  not  at  all. 

They  hunt  through  the  streets  with  deliberate  tread, 

And  each,  in  his  turn,  becomes  leader  or  led ; 

And,  wherever  they  carry  their  plots  and  their  wiles, 

Every  face  in  the  village  is  dimpled  with  smiles.  40 

Neither  checked  by  the  rich  nor  the  needy  they  roam ; 
For  the  grey-headed  Sire  has  a  daughter  at  home, 
Who  will  gladly  repair  all  the  damage  that's  done ; 
And  three,  were  it  asked,  would  be  rendered  for  one. 

Old  Man !  whom  so  oft  I  with  pity  have  eyed,  45 

I  love  thee,  and  love  the  sweet  Boy  at  thy  side : 
Long  yet  may'st  thou  live !  for  a  teacher  we  see 
That  lifts  up  the  veil  of  our  nature  in  thee. 

22  lost]  last     1805  only  25  He     1820:  Dan  MS.,  1800-15 

29-30  'Twas  a  smooth  pleasant  pathway,  a  gentle  descent, 

And  leisurely  down  it,  and  down  it,  he  went.  MS. 

30  farther     1800,  1802,  1827-50:  further     1805-20         38  becomes  leader 
or    1837:  is  both  leader  and    MS.,  1800-32  42  so  1837:  For  gray- 

headed  Dan    MS.,  1800-15:  The  gray-headed  Sire     1820-32 



[Composed  1797.— Published  1798.] 

THE  little  hedgerow  birds, 
That  peck  along  the  road,  regard  him  not. 
He  travels  on,  and  in  his  face,  his  step, 
His  gait,  is  one  expression:  every  limb, 
His  look  and  bending  figure,  all  bespeak  5 

A  man  who  does  not  move  with  pain,  but  moves 
With  thought. — He  is  insensibly  subdued 
To  settled  quiet :  he  is  one  by  whom 
All  effort  seems  forgotten ;  one  to  whom 
Long  patience  hath  such  mild  composure  given,  10 

That  patience  now  doth  seem  a  thing  of  which 
He  hath  no  need.  He  is  by  nature  led 
To  peace  so  perfect  that  the  young  behold 
With  envy,  what  the  Old  Man  hardly  feels. 

V.     "Old  Man  Travelling ;  Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay,  A  Sketch"   1 798 ; 
1800-43  omit  first  three  words,  1845  omits  also  last  two. 
3-5  .  .  .  his  face  and  every  limb 

Hi«  look  and  bending  figure  all  alike 
Have  one  expression,  all  the  same  it  is.   MS. 

7-8  resigned  to  quietness     MS.,  margin  10  hath     1805:  has    1798- 

After  14  — I  asked  him  whither  he  was  bound,  and  what 

The  object  of  his  journey ;  he  replied 

"Sir!  I  am  going  many  miles  to  take 

A  last  leave  of  my  son,  a  mariner, 

Who  from  a  sea-fight  has  been  brought  to  Falmouth, 

And  there  is  dying  in  an  hospital. — "     1798:  That  he  was  going 

.  .  .  his  son  .  .  .  had  .  .  .  was  dying  .  .  .  MS. 
1800-5,  but  lying  for  dying  in  1800.   Not  in  1815  etc. 




[Composed  ? — Published  1837.] 

WEEP  not,  beloved  Friends !  nor  let  the  air 

For  me  with  sighs  be  troubled.  Not  from  life 

Have  I  been  taken ;  this  is  genuine  life 

And  this  alone — the  life  which  now  I  live 

In  peace  eternal ;  where  desire  and  joy  5 

Together  move  in  fellowship  without  end. — 

Francesco  Ceni  willed  that,  after  death, 

His  tombstone  thus  should  speak  for  him.  And  surely 

Small  cause  there  is  for  that  fond  wish  of  ours 

Long  to  continue  in  this  world ;  a  world  10 

That  keeps  not  faith,  nor  yet  can  point  a  hope 

To  good,  whereof  itself  is  destitute. 


[Composed  1809  or  1810. — Published  February  22,  1810  (The  Friend); 

ed.  1815.] 

PERHAPS  some  needful  service  of  the  State 

Drew  TITUS  from  the  depth  of  studious  bowers, 

And  doomed  him  to  contend  in  faithless  courts, 

Where  gold  determines  between  right  and  wrong. 

Yet  did  at  length  his  loyalty  of  heart  5 

And  his  pure  native  genius,  lead  him  back 

To  wait  upon  the  bright  and  gracious  Muses, 

Whom  he  had  early  loved.  And  not  in  vain 

Such  course  he  held !   Bologna's  learned  schools 

Were  gladdened  by  the  Sage's  voice,  and  hung  10 

With  fondness  on  those  sweet  Nestorian  strains. 

There  pleasure  crowned  his  days ;  and  all  his  thoughts 

EPITAPHS POEMS     1816-32 

I.  7-8  so  1850:  .  .  .  after  death  enjoined  That  thus  his  tomb     1837-45 

II.  11  Nestrian     1810  12-13  so  1815  There  did  he  live  content  .  .  . 
Were  blithe  as  vernal  flowers     1810 


A  roseate  fragrance  breathed.1 — 0  human  life, 

That  never  art  secure  from  dolorous  change! 

Behold  a  high  injunction  suddenly  15 

To  Arno's  side  hath  brought  him,  and  he  charmed 

A  Tuscan  audience :  but  full  soon  was  called 

To  the  perpetual  silence  of  the  grave. 

Mourn,  Italy,  the  loss  of  him  who  stood 

A  Champion  stedfast  and  invincible,  20 

To  quell  the  rage  of  literary  War! 


[Composed  1809  or  1810. — Published  February  22,  1810  (The  Friend); 

ed.  1815.] 

O  THOU  who  movest  onward  with  a  mind 

Intent  upon  thy  way,  pause,  though  in  haste ! 

'Twill  be  no  fruitless  moment.  I  was  born 

Within  Savona's  walls,  of  gentle  blood. 

On  Tiber's  banks  my  youth  was  dedicate  5 

To  sacred  studies ;  and  the  Roman  Shepherd 

Gave  to  my  charge  Urbino's  numerous  flock. 

Well  did  I  watch,  much  laboured,  nor  had  power 

To  escape  from  many  and  strange  indignities ; 

Was  smitten  by  the  great  ones  of  the  world,  10 

But  did  not  fall ;  for  Virtue  braves  all  shocks, 

Upon  herself  resting  immoveably. 

Me  did  a  kindlier  fortune  then  invite 

To  serve  the  glorious  Henry,  King  of  France, 

And  in  his  hands  I  saw  a  high  reward  15 

Stretched  out  for  my  acceptance, — but  Death  came. 

Now,  Reader,  learn  from  this  my  fate,  how  false, 

How  treacherous  to  her  promise,  is  the  world ; 

And  trust  in  God — to  whose  eternal  doom 

Must  bend  the  sceptred  Potentates  of  earth.  20 

1  Ivi  vivea  giocondo  e  i  suoi  pensieri 

Erano  tutti  rose. 
The  Translator  had  not  skill  to  come  nearer  to  his  original. 

16  hath  brought     1837:  conducts     1810-32 
III.  8  Well     1837:  Much     1810-32 



[Composed  1809. — Published  December  28,  1809  (The  Friend);  ed.  1815.] 

THERE  never  breathed  a  man  who,  when  his  life 

Was  closing,  might  not  of  that  life  relate 

Toils  long  and  hard. — The  warrior  will  report 

Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  the  field, 

And  blast  of  trumpets.  He  who  hath  been  doomed      5 

To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings, 

Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate, 

Envy  and  heart-inquietude,  derived 

From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  friends. 

I,  who  on  shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth,  10 

Could  represent  the  countenance  horrible 

Of  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 

Of  Auster  and  Bootes.  Fifty  years 

Over  the  well-steered  galleys  did  I  rule : — 

From  huge  Pelorus  to  the  Atlantic  pillars,  15 

Rises  no  mountain  to  mine  eyes  unknown ; 

And  the  broad  gulfs  I  traversed  oft  and  oft. 

Of  every  cloud  which  in  the  heavens  might  stir 

I  knew  the  force ;  and  hence  the  rough  sea's  pride 

Availed  not  to  my  Vessel's  overthrow.  20 

What  noble  pomp  and  frequent  have  not  I 

On  regal  decks  beheld !  yet  in  the  end 

I  learned  that  one  poor  moment  can  suffice 

To  equalise  the  lofty  and  the  low. 

We  sail  the  sea  of  life — a  Calm  One  finds,  25 

And  One  a  Tempest — and,  the  voyage  o'er, 

Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all. 

If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 

Savona  war  my  birthplace,  and  I  sprang 

Of  noble  parents :  seventy  years  and  three  30 

Lived  I — then  yielded  to  a  slow  disease. 


[Composed  ?— Published  1837.] 

TRUE  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero 

With  an  untoward  fate  was  long  involved 

In  odious  litigation ;  and  full  long, 

Fate  harder  still !  had  he  to  endure  assaults 

IV.  13  Fifty    1837:  Forty    1809-32  23  learned    1837:  learnt    1832: 

learn     1809-27  30  seventy    1837:  sixty    180&-32 


Of  racking  malady.  And  true  it  is  5 

That  not  the  less  a  frank  courageous  heart 

And  buoyant  spirit  triumphed  over  pain ; 

And  he  was  strong  to  follow  in  the  steps 

Of  the  fair  Muses.   Not  a  covert  path 

Leads  to  the  dear  Parnassian  forest's  shade,  10 

That  might  from  him  be  hidden ;  not  a  track 

Mounts  to  pellucid  Hippocrene,  but  he 

Had  traced  its  windings. — This  Savona  knows, 

Yet  no  sepulchral  honors  to  her  Son 

She  paid,  for  in  our  age  the  heart  is  ruled  15 

Only  by  gold.   And  now  a  simple  stone 

Inscribed  with  this  memorial  here  is  raised 

By  his  bereft,  his  lonely,  Chiabrera. 

Think  not,  O  Passenger !  who  read'st  the  lines 

That  an  exceeding  love  hath  dazzled  me ;  20 

No — he  was  One  whose  memory  ought  to  spread 

Where'er  Permessus  bears  an  honoured  name, 

And  live  as  long  as  its  pure  stream  shall  flow. 


[Composed  1809. — Published  December  28,  1809  (The  Friend);  ed.  1815.] 

DESTINED  to  war  from  very  infancy 

Was  I,  Roberto  Dati,  and  I  took 

In  Malta  the  white  symbol  of  the  Cross : 

Nor  in  life's  vigorous  season  did  I  shun 

Hazard  or  toil ;  among  the  sands  was  seen  5 

Of  Lybia ;  and  not  seldom,  on  the  banks 

Of  wide  Hungarian  Danube,  'twas  my  lot 

To  hear  the  sanguinary  trumpet  sounded. 

So  lived  I,  and  repined  not  at  such  fate : 

This  only  grieves  me,  for  it  seems  a  wrong  10 

That  stripped  of  arms  I  to  my  end  am  brought 

On  the  soft  down  of  my  paternal  home. 

Yet  haply  Arno  shall  be  spared  all  cause 

To  blush  for  me.  Thou,  loiter  not  nor  halt 

In  thy  appointed  way,  and  bear  in  mind  15 

How  fleeting  and  how  frail  is  human  life ! 



[Composed  ?— Published  1837.] 

0  FLOWER  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood, 

And  all  that  generous  nurture  breeds  to  make 

Youth  amiable ;  0  friend  so  true  of  soul 

To  fair  Aglaia ;  by  what  envy  moved, 

Lelius !  has  death  cut  short  thy  brilliant  day  5 

In  its  sweet  opening  ?  and  what  dire  mishap 

Has  from  Savona  torn  her  best  delight  ? 

For  thee  she  mourns,  nor  e'er  will  cease  to  mourn ; 

And,  should  the  out-pourings  of  her  eyes  suffice  not 

For  her  heart's  grief,  she  will  entreat  Sebeto  10 

Not  to  withhold  his  bounteous  aid,  Sebeto 

Who  saw  thee,  on  his  margin,  yield  to  death, 

In  the  chaste  arms  of  thy  beloved  Love ! 

What  profit  riches  ?  what  does  youth  avail  ? 

Dust  are  our  hopes ; — I,  weeping  bitterly,  15 

Penned  these  sad  lines,  nor  can  forbear  to  pray 

That  every  gentle  Spirit  hither  led 

May  read  them  not  without  some  bitter  tears. 


[Composed  1809.— Published  January  4,  1810  (The  Friend);  ed.  1815.] 

NOT  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He 

On  whom  the  duty  fell  (for  at  that  time 

The  father  sojourned  in  a  distant  land) 

Deposit  in  the  hollow  of  this  tomb 

A  brother's. Child,  most  tenderly  beloved!  5 

FRANCESCO  was  the  name  the  Youth  had  borne, 

POZZOBONNELLI  his  illustrious  house ; 

And,  when  beneath  this  stone  the  Corse  was  laid, 

The  eyes  of  all  Savona  streamed  with  tears. 

Alas !  the  twentieth  April  of  his  life  10 

Had  scarcely  flowered :  and  at  this  early  time, 

By  genuine  virtue  he  inspired  a  hope 

That  greatly  cheered  his  country:  to  his  kin 

He  promised  comfort ;  and  the  flattering  thoughts 

VII.     For  earlier  version  v.  notes  p.  449 


His  friends  had  in  their  fondness  entertained,1  15 

He  suffered  not  to  languish  or  decay. 

Now  is  there  not  good  reason  to  break  forth 

Into  a  passionate  lament  ? — O  Soul! 

Short  while  a  Pilgrim  in  our  nether  world, 

Do  thou  enjoy  the  calm  empyreal  air ;  20 

And  round  this  earthly  tomb  let  roses  rise, 

An  everlasting  spring !  in  memory 

Of  that  delightful  fragrance  which  was  once 

From  thy  mild  manners  quietly  exhaled. 


[Composed  1809. — Published  January  4,  1810  (The  Friend);  ed.  1815.] 

PAUSE,  courteous  Spirit! — Baldi  supplicates 

That  Thou,  with  no  reluctant  voice,  for  him 

Here  laid  in  mortal  darkness,  wouldst  prefer 

A  prayer  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 

This  to  the  dead  by  sacred  right  belongs ;  5 

All  else  is  nothing. — Did  occasion  suit 

To  tell  his  worth,  the  marble  of  this  tomb 

Would  ill  suffice :  for  Plato's  lore  sublime, 

And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Stagyrite, 

Enriched  and  beautified  his  studious  mind :  10 

With  Archimedes  also  he  conversed 

As  with  a  chosen  friend ;  nor  did  he  leave 

Those  laureat  wreaths  ungathered  which  the  Nymphs 

Twine  near  their  loved  Permessus. — Finally, 

Himself  above  each  lower  thought  uplifting,  15 

His  ears  he  closed  to  listen  to  the  songs 

Which  Sion's  Bongs  did  consecrate  of  old ; 

And  his  Permessus  found  on  Lebanon. 

A  blessed  Man !  who  of  protracted  days 

Made  not,  as  thousands  do,  a  vulgar  sleep ;  20 

But  truly  did  He  live  his  life.   Urbino, 

Take  pride  in  him! — 0  Passenger,  farewell! 

1  In  justice  to  the  Author,  I  subjoin  the  original: 

e  degli  amici 

Non  lasciava  languire  i  bei  pensieri. 

IX.  1  Balbi    1815-50         8  lore    1815:  love    1810          14  so  1837:  Twine 
on  the  top  of  Pindus     1810-32  16  songs     1837:  Song     1810-32 

18  so  1837:  And  fixed  his  Pindus  upon     1810-32  21  He]  he     1810 



[Composed  ? — Published  1835.] 

BY  a  blest  Husband  guided,  Mary  came 

From  nearest  kindred,  Vernon  her  new  name ; 

She  came,  though  meek  of  soul,  in  seemly  pride 

Of  happiness  and  hope,  a  youthful  Bride. 

0  dread  reverse !  if  aught  be  so,  which  proves  5 

That  God  will  chasten  whom  he  dearly  loves. 

Faith  bore  her  up  through  pains  in  mercy  given, 

And  troubles  that  were  each  a  step  to  Heaven  : 

Two  Babes  were  laid  in  earth  before  she  died ; 

A  third  now  slumbers  at  the  Mother's  side ;  10 

Its  Sister-twin  survives,  whose  smiles  afford 

A'  trembling  solace  to  her  widowed  Lord. 

Reader !  if  to  thy  bosom  cling  the  pain 
Of  recent  sorrow  combated  in  vain ; 
Or  if  thy  cherished  grief  have  failed  to  thwart  15 

Time  still  intent  on  his  insidious  part, 
Lulling  the  mourner's  best  good  thoughts  asleep, 
Pilfering  regrets  we  would,  but  cannot,  keep ; 
Bear  with  Him — judge  Him  gently  who  makes  known 
His  bitter  loss  by  this  memorial  Stone ;  20 

And  pray  that  in  his  faithful  breast  the  grace 
Of  resignation  find  a  hallowed  place. 


[Composed  1812  (?).— Published  1837.] 

Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained 
Upon  this  sinful  earth,  by  sin  unstained: 
O  blessed  Lord !  whose  mercy  then  removed 
A  Child  whom  every  eye  that  looked  on  loved ; 
Support  us,  teach  us  calmly  to  resign 
What  we  possessed,  and  now  is  wholly  thine ! 

I.  2  Vernon     1837:  ******     1835 




In  affectionate  remembrance  of  Frances  Fermor,  whose  remains  are  de- 
posited in  the  church  of  Claines,  near  Worcester,  this  stone  is  erected  by 
her  sister,  Dame  Margaret,  wife  of  Sir  George  Beaumont,  Bart.,  who, 
feeling  not  less  than  the  love  of  a  brother  for  the  deceased,  commends 
this  memorial  to  the  care  of  his  heirs  and  successors  in  the  possession  of 
this  place. 

[Composed  1824.— Published  1842.] 

BY  vain  affections  unenthralled, 

Though  resolute  when  duty  called 

To  meet  the  world's  broad  eye, 

Pure  as  the  holiest  cloistered  nun 

That  ever  feared  the  tempting  sun,  5 

Did  Fermor  live  and  die. 

This  Tablet,  hallowed  by  her  name, 

One  heart-relieving  tear  may  claim ; 

But  if  the  pensive  gloom 

Of  fond  regret  be  still  thy  choice,  10 

Exalt  thy  spirit,  hear  the  voice 

Of  Jesus  from  her  tomb ! 



[Composed  1841.— Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

BY  playful  smiles,  (alas !  too  oft 

A  sad  heart's  sunshine)  by  a,  soft 

And  gentle  nature,  and  a  free 

Yet  modest  hand  of  charity, 

Through  life  was  OWEN  LLOYD  endeared  5 

To  young  and  old ;  and  how  revered 

Had  been  that  pious  spirit,  a  tide 

Of  humble  mourners  testified, 

When,  after  pains  dispensed  to  prove 

The  measure  of  God's  chastening  love,  10 

Here,  brought  from  far,  his  corse  found  rest, — 

Fulfilment  of  his  own  request ; — 

III.  7  This  cenotaph  (This  sacred  stone)  that  bears  her  name  MS. 


Urged  less  for  this  Yew's  shade,  though  he 

Planted  with  such  fond  hope  the  tree ; 

Less  for  the  love  of  stream  and  rock,  15 

Dear  as  they  were,  than  that  his  Flock, 

When  they  no  more  their  Pastor's  voice 

Could  hear  to  guide  them  in  their  choice 

Through  good  and  evil,  help  might  have, 

Admonished,  from  his  silent  grave,  20 

Of  righteousness,  of  sins  forgiven, 

For  peace  on  earth  and  bliss  in  heaven. 




[Composed  1798. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 

I  COME,  ye  little  noisy  Crew, 

Not  long  your  pastime  to  prevent ; 

I  heard  the  blessing  which  to  you 

Our  common  Friend  and  Father  sent. 

I  kissed  his  cheek  before  he  died ;  5 

And  when  his  breath  was  fled, 

I  raised,  while  kneeling  by  his  side, 

His  hand : — it  dropped  like  lead. 

Your  hands,  dear  Little-ones,  do  all 

That  can  be  done,  will  never  fall  10 

Like  his  till  they  are  dead. 

By  night  or  day,  blow  foul  or  fair, 

Ne'er  will  the  best  of  all  your  train 

Play  with  the  locks  of  his  white  hair, 

Or  stand  between  his  knees  again.  15 

Here  did  he  sit  confined  for  hours ; 
But  he  could  see  the  woods  and  plains, 
Could  hear  the  wind  and  mark  the  showers 
Come  streaming  down  the  streaming  panes. 
Now  stretched  beneath  his  grass-green  mound  20 

He  rests  a  prisoner  of  the  ground. 

V.  1  I  bring    MS.  2-3  Fulfilling  a  most  kind  intent  The  pious  MS. 

12  Oh  never  more  ...  14  Have  Matthew's  hand  upon  his  hair  MS. 

16  v.  note  to  48/9  app.  crti. 


He  loved  the  breathing  air, 

He  loved  the  sun,  but  if  it  rise 

Or  set,  to  him  where  now  he  lies, 

Brings  not  a  moment's  care.  25 

Alas !  what  idle  words ;  but  take 

The  Dirge  which  for  our  Master's  sake 

And  yours,  love  prompted  me  to  make. 

The  rhymes  so  homely  in  attire 

With  learned  ears  may  ill  agree,  30 

But  chanted  by  your  Orphan  Quire 

Will  make  a  touching  melody. 


Mourn,  Shepherd,  near  thy  old  grey  stone ; 
Thou  Angler,  by  the  silent  flood ; 

And  mourn  when  thou  art  all  alone,  35 

Thou  Woodman,  in  the  distant  wood ! 

Thou  one  blind  Sailor,  rich  in  joy 

Though  blind,  thy  tunes  in  sadness  hum ; 

And  mourn,  thou  poor  half-witted  Boy! 

Born  deaf,  and  living  deaf  and  dumb.  40 

Thou  drooping  sick  Man,  bless  the  Guide 
Who  checked  or  turned  thy  headstrong  youth, 
As  he  before  had  sanctified 
Thy  infancy  with  heavenly  truth. 

Ye  Striplings,  light  of  heart  and  gay,  45 

Bold  settlers  on  some  foreign  shore, 

Give,  when  your  thoughts  are  turned  this  way, 

A  sigh  to  him  whom  we  deplore. 

For  us  who  here  in  funeral  strain 

With  one  accord  our  voices  raise,  50 

Let  sorrow  overcharged  with  pain 

Be  lost  in  thankfulness  and  praise. 

48/9  Yet  why  lament  ?  in  humble  state 

He  shewed  the  good  a  Man  of  worth, 

A  single  Mortal,  can  create 

Upon  a  single  spot  of  earth.  MSS.,  followed  in  one  MS.  by 

May  Heaven  forgive  if  aught  amiss 

With  wilful  mind  he  did  or  said, 

And  both  in  sorrow  and  in  bliss 

Let  us  remember  his  grey  head.   v.  note,  p.  451. 

49—52  Weep,  weep  no  more  .  .  .  But  while  wo  here  .  .  .  May  Sorrow  «  .  . 
Give  place  to  MS. 

917.17  IV  S 


And  when  our  hearts  shall  feel  a  sting 

From  ill  we  meet  or  good  we  miss, 

May  touches  of  his  memory  bring  55 

Fond  healing,  like  a  mother's  kiss. 


LONG  time  his  pulse  hath  ceased  to  beat ; 

But  benefits,  his  gift,  we  trace — 

Expressed  in  every  eye  we  meet 

Round  this  dear  Vale,  his  native  place.  60 

To  stately  Hall  and  Cottage  rude 
Flowed  from  his  life  what  still  they  hold, 
Light  pleasures,  every  day  renewed ; 
And  blessings  half  a  century  old. 

Oh  true  of  heart,  of  spirit  gay,  65 

Thy  faults,  where  not  already  gone 
From  memory,  prolong  their  stay 
For  charity's  sweet  sake  alone. 

Such  solace  find  we  for  our  loss ; 

And  what  beyond  this  thought  we  crave  7° 

Conies  in  the  promise  from  the  Cross, 

Shining  upon  thy  happy  grave.1 



[Composed  1805.— Published  1807.] 
I  WAS  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee : 
I  saw  thee  every  day ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

1  See  upon  the  subject  of  the  three  foregoing  pieces  The  Fountain,  &c., 
[pp.  68-73]. 

56/7  Prompted  by  the  sight  of  his  Grave  a  few  years  afterwards     MS. 
57  Long,  long  thy  pulse  .  .  .     MS.  58  But  benefits  of  thine     MS. 

62  From  thee  did  flow  MS. 
65-8  Oh  good  of  heart,  and  gay  in  mind, 

If  ought  of  ill  by  thee  were  done 

May  human  frailty  pardon  find 

At  Mercy's  everlasting  Throne.  MS. 


So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air !  5 

So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day! 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  Image  still  was  there ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm !  it  seemed  no  sleep ; 

No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings:  10 

I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 

Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  Things. 

Ah!  THEN,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter's  hand, 

To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land,  15 

The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream ; 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  Pile 

Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this ! 

Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 

On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss.  20 

Thou  shouldst  have  seemed  a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years ;  a  chronicle  of  heaven ; — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease,  25 

Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife ; 

No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 

Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  Picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made :  30 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 

A  stedfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betrayed. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — 'tis  so  no  more ; 

I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control  : 

A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore ;  35 

A  deep  distress  hath  humanised  my  Soul. 

VI.  14-16  so  1807-15,  1832-50:  .  .  .  and  add  a  gleam, 

Of  lustre,  known  to  neither  sea  nor  land 

But  borrowed  from  the  youthful  Poet's  dream;     1820;  so  1827,  but 
the  gleam,  The  lustre  as  in  Errata  1820 

21  so  1845:  a  treasure  house,  a  mine     1807-15  21-4  not  in  1820^43 

27  morning  tide  L  29  illusion     1815:  delusion     1807  32  so 

1837:  A  faith,  a  trust,  that  could  not     1807-32 


Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 

A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been : 

The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old ; 

This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene.  4° 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend !  who  would  have  been  the  Friend, 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 

This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  Work ! — yet  wise  and  well,  45 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here ; 

That  Hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves,  50 
Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time, 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 

Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind ! 

Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known,  55 

Is  to  be  pitied ;  for  'tis  surely  blind, 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 

And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 

Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here. — 

Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn.  60 


[Composed  1805.— Published  1815.] 

SWEET  Flower!  belike  one  day  to  have 

A  place  upon  thy  Poet's  grave, 

I  welcome  thee  once  more : 

But  He,  who  was  on  land,  at  sea, 

My  Brother,  too,  in  loving  thee, 

Although  he  loved  more  silently, 

Sleeps  by  his  native  shore. 


All !  hopeful,  hopeful  was  the  day 

When  to  that  Ship  he  bent  his  way, 

To  govern  and  to  guide:  10 

His  wish  was  gained :  a  little  time 

Would  bring  him  back  in  manhood's  prime 

And  free  for  life,  these  hills  to  climb, 

With  all  his  wants  supplied. 

And  full  of  hope  day  followed  day  15 

While  that  stout  Ship  at  anchor  lay 

Beside  the  shores  of  Wight ; 

The  May  had  then  made  all  things  green ; 

And,  floating  there,  in  pomp  serene, 

That  Ship  was  goodly  to  be  seen,  20 

His  pride  and  his  delight ! 

Yet  then,  when  called  ashore,  he  sought 

The  tender  peace  of  rural  thought : 

In  more  than  happy  mood 

To  your  abodes,  bright  daisy  Flowers!  25 

He  then  would  steal  at  leisure  hours, 

And  loved  you  glittering  in  your  bowers, 

A  starry  multitude. 

But  hark  the  word ! — the  ship  is  gone ; — 

Returns  from  her  long  course : — anon  30 

Sets  sail: — in  season  due, 

Once  more  on  English  earth  they  stand : 

But,  when  a  third  time  from  the  land 

They  parted,  sorrow  was  at  hand 

For  Him  and  for  his  crew.  35 

Ill-fated  Vessel ! — ghastly  shock ! 

— At  length  delivered  from  the  rock, 

The  deep  she  hath  regained ; 

And  through  the  stormy  night  they  steer ; 

VII.  9  bent]  went  MS.  15  And  hopeful,  hopeful  was  the  day  MS. 

18-20  And  goodly,  also,  to  be  seen 

Was  that  proud  Ship,  of  Ships  the  Queen, 
His  hope  etc.  MS. 
22-3  he  sought  .  .  .  thought]  I  know 

The  truth  of  this  (From  his  own  pen)  he  told  me  so  MS.  corr.  to  text 
26  He  then  would  steal]  He  sometimes  stole  corr.  to  He  oft  would  steal  MS. 
30  so  MS.,  1837:  From  her  long  course  returns  1815-32  36-49  not 

in  MS. 


Labouring  for  life,  in  hope  and  fear,  40 

To  reach  a  safer  shore — how  near, 
Yet  not  to  be  attained! 

"Silence!"  the  brave  Commander  cried; 

To  that  calm  word  a  shriek  replied, 

It  was  the  last  death-shriek.  45 

— A  few  (my  soul  oft  sees  that  sight) 

Survive  upon  the  tall  mast's  height ; 

But  one  dear  remnant  of  the  night — 

For  Him  in  vain  I  seek. 

Six  weeks  beneath  the  moving  sea  5° 

He  lay  in  slumber  quietly ; 

Unforced  by  wind  or  wave 

To  quit  the  Ship  for  which  he  died, 

(All  claims  of  duty  satisfied) ; 

And  there  they  found  him  at  her  side ;  55 

And  bore  him  to  the  grave. 

Vain  service !  yet  not  vainly  done 

For  this,  if  other  end  were  none, 

That  He,  who  had  been  cast 

Upon  a  way  of  life  unmeet  60 

For  such  a  gentle  Soul  and  sweet, 

Should  find  an  undisturbed  retreat 

Near  what  he  loved,  at  last — 

That  neighbourhood  of  grove  and  field 

To  Him  a  resting-place  should  yield,  65 

A  meek  man  and  a  brave ! 

The  birds  shall  sing  and  ocean  make 

A  mournful  murmur  for  his  sake ; 

And  Thou,  sweet  Flower,  shalt  sleep  and  wake 

Upon  his  senseless  grave.  70 

41  To  reach     1837:  Towards     1816-32 

46-8  so  1837:  — A  few  appear  by  morning  light 

Preserved  upon  the  tall  mast's  height 
Oft  in  my  Soul  I  see  that  sight ;     1815-32 

64  grove]  wood  MS. 





Commander  of  the  E.  I.  Company's  ship,  the  Earl  of  Abergavenny,  in  which 
he  perished  by  calamitous  shipwreck,  Feb.  6th,  1805.  Composed  near 
the  Mountain  track,  that  leads  from  Grasmere  through  Grisdale  Hawes, 
where  it  descends  towards  Patterdale. 

[Composed  1805. — Published:  vol.  of  1842.] 


THE  Sheep-boy  whistled  loud,  and  lo ! 

That  instant,  startled  by  the  shock, 

The  Buzzard  mounted  from  the  rock 

Deliberate  and  slow : 

Lord  of  the  air,  he  took  his  flight ;  5 

Oh !  could  he  on  that  woeful  night 

Have  lent  his  wing,  my  Brother  dear, 

For  one  poor  moment's  space  to  Thee, 

And  all  who  struggled  with  the  Sea, 

When  safety  was  so  near.  10 


Thus  in  the  weakness  of  my  heart 
I  spoke  (but  let  that  pang  be  still) 
When  rising  from  the  rock  at  will, 
I  saw  the  Bird  depart. 

VIII.     Before  L  I  I  only  look'd  for  pain  and  grief 

And  trembled  as  I  drew  more  near, 

Bat  God's  unbounded  love  is  here 

And  I  have  found  relief. 

The  precious  Spot  is  all  my  own 

Save  only  that  this  Plant  unknown, 

A  little  one  and  lowly  sweet, 

Not  surely  now  without  Heav'n's  grace 

First  seen,  and  seen  too  in  this  place, 

Is  flowering  at  my  feet. 

The  Shepherd  Boy  hath  disappear'd, 
The  Buzzard  too,  hath  soar'd  away, 
And  undisturb'd  I  now  may  pay 
My  debt  to  what  I  fear'd, 
Sad  register !  but  this  is  sure, 
Peace  built  on  suffering  will  endure ; 
But  such  the  peace  that  will  be  ours 
Though  many  suns  alas !  must  shine 
Ere  tears  shall  cease  from  me  and  mine 
To  fall  in  bitter  show'rs.  MS. 


And  let  me  calmly  bless  the  Power  15 

That  meets  me  in  this  unknown  Flower, 

Affecting  type  of  him  I  mourn ! 

With  calmness  suffer  and  believe, 

And  grieve,  and  know  that  I  must  grieve, 

Not  cheerless,  though  forlorn.  20 


Here  did  we  stop ;  and  here  looked  round 
While  each  into  himself  descends, 
For  that  last  thought  of  parting  Friends 
That  is  not  to  be  found. 

Hidden  was  Grasmere  Vale  from  sight,  25 

Our  home  and  his,  his  heart's  delight, 
.His  quiet  heart's  selected  home. 
But  time  before  him  melts  away, 
And  he  hath  feeling  of  a  day 
Of  blessedness  to  come.  30 


Full  soon  in  sorrow  did  I  weep, 

Taught  that  the  mutual  hope  was  dust, 

In  sorrow,  but  for  higher  trust, 

How  miserably  deep ! 

All  vanished  in  a  single  word,  35 

A  breath,  a  sound,  and  scarcely  heard. 

Sea — Ship — drowned — Shipwreck — so  it  came, 

The  meek,  the  brave,  the  good,  was  gone ; 

He  who  had  been  our  living  John 

Was  nothing  but  a  name.  40 

25  Our  Grasmere  vale  was  out  of  sight  MS.  27  His  gentle  heart's 

delicious  home.   MS. 

30/1  Here  did  we  part,  and  seated  here 

With  One  he  lov'd,  I  saw  him  bound 

Downwards  along  the  rocky  ground 

As  if  with  eager  chear. 

A  lovely  sight  as  on  he  went, 

For  he  was  bold  and  innocent, 

Had  liv'd  a  life  of  self-command, 

Heaven,  did  it  seem  to  me  and  her 

Had  laid  on  such  a  Mariner 

A  consecrating  hand.  MS. 
31-2  Then  let  not  those  be  blamed  who  weep 

Now  taught  that  such  a  faith  was  dust  MS. 



That  was  indeed  a  parting !  oh, 

Glad  am  I,  glad  that  it  is  past ; 

For  there  were  some  on  whom  it  cast 

Unutterable  woe. 

But  they  as  well  as  I  have  gains ; —  45 

From  many  a  humble  source,  to  pains 

Like  these,  there  comes  a  mild  release ; 

Even  here  I  feel  it,  even  this  Plant 

Is  in  its  beauty  ministrant 

To  comfort  and  to  peace.  5° 


He  would  have  loved  thy  modest  grace, 

Meek  Flower !  To  Him  I  would  have  said, 

"It  grows  upon  its  native  bed 

Beside  our  Parting-place ; 

There,  cleaving  to  the  ground,  it  lies  55 

With  multitude  of  purple  eyes, 

Spangling  a  cushion  green  like  moss ; 

But  we  will  see  it,  joyful  tide! 

Some  day,  to  see  it  in  its  pride, 

The  mountain  will  we  cross."  60 


— Brother  and  friend,  if  verse  of  mine 

Have  power  to  make  thy  virtues  known, 

Here  let  a  monumental  Stone 

Stand — sacred  as  a  Shrine ; 

And  to  the  few  who  pass  this  way,  65 

Traveller  or  Shepherd,  let  it  say, 

Long  as  these  mighty  rocks  endure, — 

Oh  do  not  Thou  too  fondly  brood, 

Although  deserving  of  all  good, 

On  any  earthly  hope,  however  pure  I1  70 

1  The  plant  alluded  to  is  the  Moss  Campion  (Silene  acaulis,  of  LinnsBus). 
See  Note,  p.  456.  See  among  the  Poems  on  the  "Naming  of  Places",  No.  vi. 

55   /  Close  to  the  ground  like  dew  it  lies 

{  As  loth  to  leave  the  ground  it  lies 

lit  climbs  not  from  the  ground  but  lies  MS. 

61  Well,  well,  if  ever  verse  of  mine  MS.  62  thy  virtues]  his  merits 





[Composed  January,  1846. — Published  I860.] 

WHY  should  we  weep  or  mourn,  Angelic  boy, 

For  such  thou  wert  ere  from  our  sight  removed, 

Holy,  and  ever  dutiful — beloved 

From  day  to  day  with  never-ceasing  joy, 

And  hopes  as  dear  as  could  the  heart  employ  5 

In  aught  to  earth  pertaining  ?   Death  has  proved 

His  might,  nor  less  his  mercy,  as  behoved — 

Death  conscious  that  he  only  could  destroy 

The  bodily  frame.  That  beauty  is  laid  low 

To  moulder  in  a  far-off  field  of  Rome ;  10 

But  Heaven  is  now,  blest  Child,  thy  Spirit's  home : 

When  such  divine  communion,  which  we  know, 

Is  felt,  thy  Roman  burial-place  will  be 

Surely  a  sweet  remembrancer  of  Thee. 



Composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a  walk  one  Evening,  after  a  stormy  day, 
the  Author  having  just  read  in  a  Newspaper  that  the  dissolution  of  Mr. 
Fox  was  hourly  expected. 

[Composed  September,  1806. — Published  1807.] 

LOUD  is  the  Vale !  the  Voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 

A  mighty  unison  of  streams ! 

Of  all  her  Voices,  One ! 

Loud  is  the^  Vale ; — this  inland  Depth  5 

In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  Sea ; 
Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  deprest, 

Importunate  and  heavy  load!1  10 

The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here, 

Upon  this  lonely  road ; 

1  Importuna  e  grave  salma. 


IX.   12  such]  this  MS. 


And  many  thousands  now  are  sad — 

Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear ; 

For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay,  15 

Their  glory  disappear. 

A  Power  is  passing  from  the  earth 

To  breathless  Nature's  dark  abyss ; 

But  when  the  great  and  good  depart 

What  is  it  more  than  this —  20 

That  Man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  ? — 
Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be, 
Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn  ? 


FEBKUARY,  1816 
[Composed  February,  1816. — Published  1816.] 


"REST,  rest,  perturbed  Earth! 
O  rest,  thou  doleful  Mother  of  Mankind!" 
A  Spirit  sang  in  tones  more  plaintive  than  the  wind : 
"From  regions  where  no  evil  thing  has  birth 
I  come — thy  stains  to  wash  away,  5 

Thy  cherished  fetters  to  unbind, 
And  open  thy  sad  eyes  upon  a  milder  day. 
The  Heavens  are  thronged  with  martyrs  that  have  risen 

From  out  thy  noisome  prison ; 

The  penal  caverns  groan  10 

With  tens  of  thousands  rent  from  off  the  tree 
Of  hopeful  life, — by  battle's  whirlwind  blown 
Into  the  deserts  of  Eternity. 
Unpitied  havoc!  Victims  unlamented! 
But  not  on  high,  where  madness  is  resented,  15 

And  murder  causes  some  sad  tears  to  flow, 
Though,  from  the  widely-sweeping  blow, 
The  choirs  of  Angels  spread,  triumphantly  augmented. 

X.  19  so  1837:  But  when  the  Mighty  pass  away     1807-32 



"False  Parent  of  Mankind! 

Obdurate,  proud,  and  blind,  20 

I  sprinkle  thee  with  soft  celestial  dews, 
Thy  lost,  maternal  heart  to  re-infuse ! 
Scattering  this  far-fetched  moisture  from  my  wings, 
Upon  the  act  a  blessing  I  implore, 

Of  which  the  rivers  in  their  secret  springs,  25 

The  rivers  stained  so  oft  with  human  gore, 
Are  conscious ; — may  the  like  return  no  more ! 
May  Discord — for  a  Seraph's  care 
Shall  be  attended  with  a  bolder  prayer — 
May  she,  who  once  disturbed  the  seats  of  bliss  30 

These  mortal  spheres  above, 
Be  chained  for  ever  to  the  black  abyss ! 
And  thou,  O  rescued  Earth,  by  peace  and  love, 
And  merciful  desires,  thy  sanctity  approve!" 

The  Spirit  ended  his  mysterious  rite,  35 

And  the  pure  vision  closed  in  darkness  infinite. 



[Composed  November  13,  1814. — Published  1815.] 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong, 

Did  I  deliver  this  unfinished  Song ; 

Yet  for  one  happy  issue ; — and  I  look 

With  self-congratulation  on  the  Book 

Which  pious,  learned,  MURFITT  saw  and  read ; —  5 

Upon  my  thoughts  his  saintly  Spirit  fed ; 

He  conned  the  new-born  Lay  with  grateful  heart — 

Foreboding  not  how  soon  he  must  depart ; 

Unweeting  that  to  him  the  joy  was  given 

Which  good  men  take  with  them  from  earth  to  heaven.     10 





[Composed  probably  December,  1824. — Published  1827.] 

O  FOR  a  dirge !  But  why  complain  ? 

Ask  rather  a  triumphal  strain 

When  FERMOR'S  race  is  run ; 

A  garland  of  immortal  boughs 

To  twine  around  the  Christian's  brows,  5 

Whose  glorious  work  is  done. 

We  pay  a  high  and  holy  debt ; 

No  tears  of  passionate  regret 

Shall  stain  this  votive  lay ; 

Ill-worthy,  Beaumont !  were  the  grief  10 

That  flings  itself  on  wild  relief 

When  Saints  have  passed  away. 

Sad  doom,  at  Sorrow's  shrine  to  kneel, 

For  ever  covetous  to  feel, 

And  impotent  to  bear!  15 

Such  once  was  hers — to  think  and  think 

On  severed  love,  and  only  sink 

From  anguish  to  despair ! 

But  nature  to  its  inmost  part 

Faith  had  refined ;  and  to  her  heart  20 

A  peaceful  cradle  given : 

Calm  as  the  dew-drop's,  free  to  rest 

Within  a  breeze-fanned  rose's  breast 

Till  it  exhales  to  Heaven. 

Was  ever  Spirit  that  could  bend  25 

So  graciously  ? — that  could  descend, 

Another's  need  to  suit, 

So  promptly  from  her  lofty  throne  ? — 

In  works  of  love,  in  these  alone, 

How  restless,  how  minute !  30 

XIII.  Title  *o  1837:   ELEGIAC  STANZAS  1824      1827-32.  6  twine 

1845:  bind    1827-43         20  Faith  had    1837;  Had  Faith    1827-32         26 
graciously]  courteously  MS. 


Pale  was  her  hue ;  yet  mortal  cheek 

Ne'er  kindled  with  a  livelier  streak 

When  aught  had  suffered  wrong, — 

When  aught  that  breathes  had  felt  a  wound ; 

Such  look  the  Oppressor  might  confound,  35 

However  proud  and  strong. 

But  hushed  be  every  thought  that  springs 

From  out  the  bitterness  of  things ; 

Her  quiet  is  secure ; 

No  thorns  can  piece  her  tender  feet,  4° 

Whose  life  was,  like  the  violet,  sweet, 

As  climbing  jasmine,  pure — 

As  snowdrop  on  an  infant's  grave, 
.    Or  lily  heaving  with  the  wave 
That  feeds  it  and  defends ;  45 

As  Vesper,  ere  the  star  hath  kissed 
The  mountain  top,  or  breathed  the  mist 
That  from  the  vale  ascends. 

Thou  takest  not  away,  0  Death ! 

Thou  strikest — absence  perisheth,  50 

Indifference  is  no  more ; 

The  future  brightens  on  our  sight ; 

For  on  the  past  hath  fallen  a  light 

That  tempts  us  to  adore. 



In  these  grounds  stands  the  Parish  Church,  wherein  is  a  mural  monument 
bearing  an  inscription  which,  in  deference  to  the  earnest  request  of  the 
deceased,  is  confined  to  name,  dates,  and  these  words: — "Enter  not  into 
judgment  with  thy  servant,  O  Lord!" 

[Composed  November,  1830. — Published  1835.] 

WITH  copious  eulogy  in  prose  or  rhyme 
Graven  on  the  tomb  we  struggle  against  Time, 
Alas,  how  feebly!  but  our  feelings  rise 
And  still  we  struggle  when  a  good  man  dies. 

50  so  1843:  Thou  strik'st — and     1827-37 
XIV.  1  or  1837,  MSS.:  and     1835 


Such  offering  BEAUMONT  dreaded  and  forbade,  5 

A  spirit  meek  in  self-abasement  clad. 

Yet  here  at  least,  though  few  have  numbered  days 

That  shunned  so  modestly  the  light  of  praise, 

His  graceful  manners,  and  the  temperate  ray 

Of  that  arch  fancy  which  would  round  him  play,  10 

Brightening  a  converse  never  known  to  swerve 

From  courtesy  and  delicate  reserve ; 

That  sense,  the  bland  philosophy  of  life, 

Which  checked  discussion  ere  it  warmed  to  strife ; 

Those  rare  accomplishments,  and  varied  powers,  15 

Might  have  their  record  among  sylvan  bowers. 

Oh,  fled  for  ever !  vanished  like  a  blast 

That  shook  the  leaves  in  myriads  as  it  passed ; — 

Gone  from  this  world  of  earth,  air,  sea,  and  sky, 

From  all  its  spirit-moving  imagery,  20 

Intensely  studied  with  a  painter's  eye, 

A  poet's  heart ;  and,  for  congenial  view, 

Portrayed  with  happiest  pencil,  not  untrue 

To  common  recognitions  while  the  line 

Flowed  in  a  course  of  sympathy  divine  ; —  25 

Oh !  severed,  too  abruptly,  from  delights 

That  all  the  seasons  shared  with  equal  rights ; — 

Rapt  in  the  grace  of  undismantled  age, 

From  soul-felt  music,  and  the  treasured  page 

Lit  by  that  evening  lamp  which  loved  to  shed  30 

Its  mellow  lustre  round  thy  honoured  head ; 

While  Friends  beheld  thee  give  with  eye,  voice,  mien, 

More  than  theatric  force  to  Shakspeare's  scene ; — 

If  thou  hast  heard  me — if  thy  Spirit  know 

Aught  of  these  bowers  and  whence  their  pleasures  flow ;     35 

If  things  in  our  remembrance  held  so  dear, 

And  thoughts  and  projects  fondly  cherished  here, 

To  thy  exalted  nature  only  seem 

Time's  vanities,  light  fragments  of  earth's  dream — 

Rebuke  us  not ! — The  mandate  is  obeyed  40 

That  said,  "Let  praise  be  mute  where  I  am  laid ;" 

The  holier  deprecation,  given  in  trust 

To  the  cold  marble,  waits  upon  thy  dust ; 

Yet  have  we  found  how  slowly  genuine  "grief 

15  rare     1837:  fine     MSS.,  1835  34-9  not  in  MSS.,  1835 


From  silent  admiration  wins  relief.  45 

Too  long  abashed  thy  Name  is  like  a  rose 

That  doth  "within  itself  its  sweetness  close;" 

A  drooping  daisy  changed  into  a  cup 

In  which  her  bright-eyed  beauty  is  shut  up. 

Within  these  groves,  where  still  are  flitting  by  50 

Shades  of  the  Past,  oft  noticed  with  a  sigh, 

Shall  stand  a  votive  Tablet,  haply  free, 

When  towers  and  temples  fall,  to  speak  of  Thee ! 

If  sculptured  emblems  of  our  mortal  doom 

Recal  not  there  the  wisdom  of  the  Tomb,  55 

Green  ivy  risen  from  out  the  cheerful  earth 

Will  fringe  the  lettered  stone ;  and  herbs  spring  forth, 

Whose  fragrance,  by  soft  dews  and  rain  unbound, 

Shall  penetrate  the  heart  without  a  wound ; 

While  truth  and  love  their  purposes  fulfil,  60 

Commemorating  genius,  talent,  skill, 

That  could  not  lie  concealed  where  Thou  wert  known ; 

Thy  virtues  He  must  judge,  and  He  alone, 

The  God  upon  whose  mercy  they  are  thrown. 


[Ll.  1-38  composed  November  19,  1835,  and  privately  printed  with  title 
Epitaph,  1835 ;  11.  39-131  composed  December,  1835,  and  privately  printed 
1836.— Published  1837.] 

To  a  good  Man  of  most  dear  memory 

This  Stone  is  sacred.   Here  he  lies  apart 

From  the  great  city  where  he  first  drew  breath, 

Was  reared  and  taught ;  and  humbly  earned  his  bread, 

To  the  strict  labours  of  the  merchant's  desk  5 

By  duty  chained.  Not  seldom  did  those  tasks 

Tease,  and  the  thought  of  time  so  spent  depress, 

His  spirit,  but  the  recompence  was  high ; 

Firm  Independence,  Bounty's  rightful  sire ; 

Affections,  warm  as  sunshine,  free  as  air ;  10 

And  when  the  precious  hours  of  leisure  came, 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  gained  from  converse  sweet 

57  Will     1837:  Shall  MS.,  1835 

XV.  Title  added  in  1845  1  To  the  dear  memory  of  a  frail  good 

Man     1835-6 


With  books,  or  while  he  ranged  the  crowded  streets 

With  a  keen  eye,  and  overflowing  heart : 

So  genius  triumphed  over  seeming  wrong,  15 

And  poured  out  truth  in  works  by  thoughtful  love 

Inspired — works  potent  over  smiles  and  tears. 

And  as  round  mountain-tops  the  lightning  plays, 

Thus  innocently  sported,  breaking  forth 

As  from  a  cloud  of  some  grave  sympathy,  20 

Humour  and  wild  instinctive  wit,  and  all 

The  vivid  flashes  of  his  spoken  words. 

From  the  most  gentle  creature  nursed  in  fields 

Had  been  derived  the  name  he  bore — a  name, 

Wherever  Christian  altars  have  been  raised,  35 

Hallowed  to  meekness  and  to  innocence; 

And  if  in  him  meekness  at  times  gave  way, 

Provoked  out  of  herself  by  troubles  strange, 

Many  and  strange,  that  hung  about  his  life ; 

Still,  at  the  centre  of  his  being,  lodged  30 

A  soul  by  resignation  sanctified: 

And  if  too  often,  self-reproached,  he  felt 

That  innocence  belongs  not  to  our  kind, 

A  power  that  never  ceased  to  abide  in  him, 

Charity,  'mid  the  multitude  of  sins  35 

That  she  can  cover,  left  not  his  exposed 

To  an  unforgiving  judgment  from  just  Heaven. 

O,  he  was  good,  if  e'er  a  good  Man  lived! 

From  a  reflecting  mind  and  sorrowing  heart 

Those  simple  lines  flowed  with  an  earnest  wish,  40 

16-17  These  lines  were  not  in  the  original  draft 
20/1  Or  suddenly  dislodged  by  strong  rebound 

Of  animal  spirits  that  had  sunk  too  low     original  draft 
34—5  He  had  a  constant  friend  in  Charity; 

Her  who,  among  a  multitude  of  sins     1835—6 ;  (1835  italicizes  Charity, 
his  in  1.  36  and  if  e'er  in  1.  38) 
40-9  This  tribute  flow'd,  with  hope  that  it  might  guard 

The  dust  of  him  whose  virtues  called  it  forth ; 

But  'tis  a  little  space  of  earth  that  man, 

Stretch'd  out  in  death,  is  doom'd  to  occupy ; 

Still  smaller  space  doth  modest  custom  yield 

On  sculptured  tomb  or  tablet,  to  the  claims 

Of  the  deceased,  or  rights  of  the  bereft. 

JTis  well ;  and,  tho'  the  record  overstepped 

Those  narrow  bounds,  yet  on  the  printed  page 
917.17  IV  T 


Though  but  a  doubting  hope,  that  they  might  serve 

Fitly  to  guard  the  precious  dust  of  him 

Whose  virtues  called  them  forth.   That  aim  is  missed ; 

For  much  that  truth  most  urgently  required 

Had  from  a  faltering  pen  been  asked  in  vain :  45 

Yet,  haply,  on  the  printed  page  received, 

The  imperfect  record,  there,  may  stand  unblamed 

As  long  as  verse  of  mine  shall  breathe  the  air 

Of  memory,  or  see  the  light  of  love. 

Thou  wert  a  scorner  of  the  fields,  my  Friend,  5° 

But  more  in  show  than  truth ;  and  from  the  fields, 
And  from  the  mountains,  to  thy  rural  grave 
Transported,  my  soothed  spirit  hovers  o'er 
Its  green  untrodden  turf,  and  blowing  flowers ; 
And  taking  up  a  voice  shall  speak  (tho5  still  55 

Awed  by  the  theme's  peculiar  sanctity 
Which  words  less  free  presumed  not  even  to  touch) 
Of  that  fraternal  love,  whose  heaven-lit  lamp 
From  infancy,  through  manhood,  to  the  last 
Of  threescore  years,  and  to  thy  latest  hour,  60 

Burnt  on  with  ever-strengthening  light,  enshrined 
Within  thy  bosom. 

"Wonderful"  hath  been 
The  love  established  between  man  and  man, 
"Passing  the  love  of  women ;"  and  between 
Man  and  his  help-mate  in  fast  wedlock  joined  65 

Through  God,  is  raised  a  spirit  and  soul  of  love 
Without  whose  blissful  influence  Paradise 
Had  been  no  Paradise ;  and  earth  were  now 

Received,  there  may  it  stand,  I  trust,  unblamed 
(Aptly  received/*  there  it  may  stand  unblamed  Proof  copy) 
As  long  as  verse  of  mine  shall  steal  from  tears 
Their  bitterness,  or  live  to  shed  a  gleam 
Of  solace  over  one  dejected  thought     18361 
'Tis  well;  and  tho'  the  appropriate  bounds  have  here 
Been  overstepped,  yet  may  the  imprinted  page 
Receive  the  record,  there  to  stand,  unblamed, 
As  long  as  verse  of  mine  etc.  as  text     1836a 
'Tis  well,  and  if  the  Record  in  the  strength 
And  earnestness  of  feeling,  overpass'd 
Those  narrow  limits  and  so  miss'd  its  aim 
Yet  will  I  trust  that  on  the  printed  page 

Received,  it  there  may  keep  a  place  unblamed  MS.  quoted  by  Dowden 
61  Burnt  on]  Burned,  and     1836  66  Through]  By     1836 


A  waste  where  creatures  bearing  human  form, 

Direst  of  savage  beasts,  would  roam  in  fear,  70 

Joyless  and  comfortless.   Our  days  glide  on ; 

And  let  him  grieve  who  cannot  choose  but  grieve 

That  he  hath  been  an  Elm  without  his  Vine, 

And  her  bright  dower  of  clustering  charities, 

That,  round  his  trunk  and  branches,  might  have  clung       75 

Enriching  and  adorning.  Unto  thee, 

Not  so  enriched,  not  so  adorned,  to  thee 

Was  given  (say  rather  thou  of  later  birth 

Wert  given  to  her)  a  Sister — 'tis  a  word 

Timidly  uttered,  for  she  lives,  the  meek,  80 

The  self-restraining,  and  the  ever-kind ; 

In  whom  thy  reason  and  intelligent  heart 

Found — for  all  interests,  hopes,  and  tender  cares, 

All  softening,  humanising,  hallowing  powers, 

Whether  withheld,  or  for  her  sake  unsought —  85 

More  than  sufficient  recompence ! 

Her  love 

(What  weakness  prompts  the  voice  to  tell  it  here  ?) 
Was  as  the  love  of  mothers ;  and  when  years, 
Lifting  the  boy  to  man's  estate,  had  called 
The  long-protected  to  assume  the  part  90 

Of  a  protector,  the  first  filial  tie 
Was  undissolved ;  and,  in  or  out  of  sight, 
Remained  imperishably  interwoven 
With  life  itself.   Thus,  'mid  a  shifting  world, 
Did  they  together  testify  of  time  95 

And  season's  difference — a  double  tree 
With  two  collateral  stems  sprung  from  one  root ; 
Such  were  they — such  thro'  life  they  might  have  been 
In  union,  in  partition  only  such ; 

Otherwise  wrought  the  will  of  the  Most  High ;  100 

Yet,  thro'  all  visitations  and  all  trials, 
Still  they  were  faithful ;  like  two  vessels  launched 
From  the  same  beach  one  ocean  to  explore 

71  glide]  pass     1836  94  Thus]  Yet     1836 

94-5  Together  stood  they  (witnessing  of  time 

And  season's  difference)  as  a  double  tree     18361 

95  Fix'd — they  together  testified  of  time     18362  100  added  to  Proof 

copy  101-2  Yet  thro'  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  they  were]  And  in  ...  through  . .  . 

were  they,  Proof  copy  102-3  like  two  goodly  ships  Launched  from 

the  beach     1836 


With  mutual  help,  and  sailing — to  their  league 

True,  as  inexorable  winds,  or  bars  105 

Floating  or  fixed  of  polar  ice,  allow. 

But  turn  we  rather,  let  my  spirit  turn 
With  thine,  O  silent  and  invisible  Friend ! 
To  those  dear  intervals,  nor  rare  nor  brief, 
When  reunited,  and  by  choice  withdrawn  no 

From  miscellaneous  converse,  ye  were  taught 
That  the  remembrance  of  foregone  distress, 
And  the  worse  fear  of  future  ill  (which  oft 
Doth  hang  around  it,  as  a  sickly  child 
Upon  its  mother)  may  be  both  alike  115 

Disarmed  of  power  to  unsettle  present  good 
.So  prized,  and  things  inward  and  outward  held 
In  such  an  even  balance,  that  the  heart 
Acknowledges  God's  grace,  his  mercy  feels, 
And  in  its  depth  of  gratitude  is  still.  120 

O  gift  divine  of  quiet  sequestration ! 
The  hermit,  exercised  in  prayer  and  praise, 
And  feeding  daily  on  the  hope  of  heaven, 
Is  happy  in  his  vow,  and  fondly  cleaves 
To  life-long  singleness ;  but  happier  far  125 

Was  to  your  souls,  and,  to  the  thoughts  of  others, 
A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  appeared, 
Your  dual  loneliness.  The  sacred  tie 
Is  broken ;  yet  why  grieve  ?  for  Time  but  holds 
His  moiety  in  trust,  till  Joy  shall  lead  130 

To  the  blest  world  where  parting  is  unknown. 



[Composed  November,  1835. — Published  December  12,  1835  (The  Athe- 

nceum) ;  ed.  1837.] 

WHEN  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands, 

I  saw  the  Stream  of  Yarrow  glide 

Along  a  bare  and  open  valley, 

The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

128-31     .  .  .  The  sacred  tie 

Is  broken,  to  become  more  sacred  still.  1836 


When  last  along  its  banks  I  wandered,  5 

Through  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 
Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  pathways, 
My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 

'Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies ;  10 

And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow, 

Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes : 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 

From  sign  to  sign,  its  stedfast  course, 

Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge  15 

Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source ; 

The  rapt  One,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 

The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth : 

And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 

Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth.  20 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber  25 

Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear?" 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness, 

Like  London  with  its  own  black  wreath,  30 

On  which  with  thee,  O  Crabbe !  forth-looking. 

I  gazed  from  Hampstead's  breezy  heath. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed, 

Thou  too  art  gone  before ;  but  why, 

O'er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered,  35 

Should  frail  survivors  heave  a  sigh  ? 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit, 
Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep ; 

XVI.  25  slumber     1845:  slumbers     1835-43 
37-9  She  too,  a  Muse  whose  holy  Spirit 

Was  sweet  as  etc. 

She,  ere  her  Summer  yet  was  faded  MS. 

Grieve  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit 

Pure  as  the  sky  etc.    C 


For  Her  who,  ere  her  summer  faded, 

Has  sunk  into  a  breathless  sleep.  4° 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows, 

For  slaughtered  Youth  or  love-lorn  Maid ! 

With  sharper  grief  is  Yarrow  smitten, 

And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  Poet  dead.1 



[Composed  December,  1843. — Published  1845.] 

YE  vales  and  hills  whose  beauty  hither  drew 
The  poet's  steps,  and  fixed  him  here,  on  you 
His  eyes  have  closed !   And  ye,  lov'd  books,  no  more 
Shall  Southey  feed  upon  your  precious  lore, 
To  works  that  ne'er  shall  forfeit  their  renown,  5 

Adding  immortal  labours  of  his  own — 
Whether  he  traced  historic  truth,  with  zeal 
For  the  State's  guidance,  or  the  Church's  weal, 
Or  Fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  art, 
Inform 'd  his  pen,  or  wisdom  of  the  heart,  10 

Or  judgments  sanctioned  in  the  Patriot's  mind 
By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind. 
Wide  were  his  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  meet  for  holier  rest. 
His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a  cloud  15 

From  Skiddaw's  top ;  but  he  to  heaven  was  vowed 
Through  his  industrious  life,  and  Christian  faith 
Calmed  in  his  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death. 
1  See  Note. 

44  And  Ettrick  mourns  her  Shepherd  poet  dead  C 

XVII.  Before  1.  1  Ye  torrents,  foaming  down  the  rocky  steeps, 

Ye  lakes,  -wherein  the  spirit  of  water  sleeps,   MS. 
7-8  not  in  MS.  1  9  Or]  As  MS.  1  11  sanctioned]  rooted  MS.  1 

12  Taught  to  revere  the  rights  MS.  1 

13-14  Friends,  Family — ah  wherefore  touch  that  string. 

To  them  so  fondly  did  the  good  man  cling  MS.  1  corr.  to 
Friends,  Family — within  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  need  (find)  a  holier  nest. 

13  Wide]  Large  MS. 

17-18  Through  a  long  life;  and  calmed  by  Christian  faith 
In  his  pure  soul  MS.  1  corr.  to 

Through  a  life  long  and  pure ;  and  Christian  [steadfast]  faith 
Calmed  etc.  as  text,  v,  note  p.  463. 



The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

[Composed  1802-1804.— Published  1807.] 


THERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  5 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,  10 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair ;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  ao 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

Title     INTIMATIONS  etc.  not  in  1807  Paulo  majora  canamus  1807 

The  Child  .  .  .  piety  1815:                6  hath  1820:  has    MSS.-1815  9 

I  now  can  see]  I  see  them  now     MS.  M  13  bare ;  MSS.-1837 :  bare, 

280  ODE 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay ; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday ; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  Shep- 
herd-boy !  35 


Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal,  40 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling  45 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm: — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!  50 

— But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat :  55 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

36-57  not  in  MS.  B 

41  Even  yet  more  gladness — I  can  hold  it  all  MS.  M  deleted  in  L  43 

Earth    1837:  the  Earth    MSB.— 1832        45  culling    1837:  pulling    MSS.— 
1832  49  on]  in    MS.  M  67  now]  gone  MS.  M,  corr.  to  now 

MS.  L 

ODE  281 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  60 

And  cometh  from  afar : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home :  65 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 

But  He 
Beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows,  70 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ;  75 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind,  80 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came.  85 


Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Frettied  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 

69  But  He 

Beholds  the  light  etc.     MS.  L  corr.  from  text  in  W.WSs  hand:  But  He 
beholds  etc.  as  one  line.  MS.  M,  1807-50 

76  perceives]  beholds  MSS.  78  pleasures]  pleasure      MS.  M  and  MS. 

L  corr.  to  text  87  six     1815:  four    MSS.,  1807 

282  ODE 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes !  90 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ;  95 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long  100 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age,  105 

That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 


Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity ;  no 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest!  115 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 

Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave,  120 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 

109  O  Thou  whose  outward  seeming     MS.  M:  exterior  presence     MS.  L, 
corr.  to  text  115  Thou  mighty     MS.  M 

118  so  1820:  not  in  MSS.-1815  119  O  Thou  on  whom  MS.  M 

121/2  To  whom  the  grave 

Is  but  a  lonely  bed  without  the  sense  or  sight 

Of  day  or  the  warm  light, 

A  place  of  thought  where  we  in  waiting  lie ;     1807-15  :  so  MS.  M,  but 
Thou  unto  whom  .  .  .  and  living  place  for  place  of  thought 

ODE  283 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 

Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 

Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke,  125 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 

Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 

Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 


O  joy!  that  in  our  embers  130 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  indeed  135 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast : — 

Not  for  these  I  raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature  145 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections,  150 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

122-3  not  in     MSS.  L,M  123  so  1815:  Of  untam'd  pleasures,  on  thy 

Being's  height  1 807 :  so  MS .  L  but  nature  corr.  to  being.  1 27/ 8  The  world 
upon  thy  noble  nature  seize,  With  all  its  vanities  MSS.L,  B  135  benedic- 
tion 1827:  benedictions  MSS. — 1820  138-9  busy ...  new-fledged  hopes 
still  fluttering  1815:  fluttering  .  .  .  new-born  hope  for  ever  MSS.,  1807 
142-5  But  for  those  blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature  MS.  M  153  a]  the 
MS.  M 
153/4  Throw  off  from  us,  or  mitigate,  the  spell 

Of  that  strong  frame  of  sense  in  which  we  dwell ;     MS.  L 

284  ODE 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being  155 

Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  160 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither,  165 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound  170 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May !  1 75 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find  t8o 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering ;  185 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

154  80  1815:  .  .  .  cherish  us,  and  make  MSS.,  1807 
176-9  What  though  it  be  past  the  hour 

Of  splendour  etc.   MS.  M 
182-3  not  in  MSS.  (but  added  to  MS.  L) 

ODE  285 


And  0,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ;  190 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day  195 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won.  200 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

188  Hills]  fields  MS.  M. 

189  Forbode  not     1837:  Think  not  of    MSS. — 1832 
191/2  Divine  indeed  of  sense 

A  blessed  influence  MS.  B. :  MS.  L.  (but  deleted) 

192  To  acknowledge  under  you  a  higher  sway  MSS.  L.,  B.         193-4  Dear 
are  the  Brooks  which  .  .  .  More  dear  than     MSS.  L.,  B. 
196/7  Nor  (Not)  unaccompanied  with  blithe  desire 

Though  many  a  serious  pleasure  it  inspire  MS.  L.  (deleted) 
198  a  sober]  an  awful  MS.  L.,  corr.  to  text 


Translations  of  Virgil's  JSneid  I,  II,  and  III,  and  other 



[Translated  1819-23;  I  901-1043  (Virgil  657-756)  printed  in 
The  Philological  Museum,  1832] 


It  is  proper  to  premise  that  the  first  Couplet  of  this  Translation  is  adopted 
from  Pitt ; — as  are  likewise  two  Couplets  in  the  second  Book ;  and  three 
or  four  lines,  in  different  parts,  are  taken  from  Dryden.  A  few  expressions 
will  also  be  found,  which,  following  the  Original  closely,  are  the  same  as 
the  preceding  Translators  have  unavoidably  employed. 


ARMS,  and  the  Man  I  sing,  the  first  who  bore 

His  course  to  Latium  from  the  Trojan  shore, 

A  Fugitive  of  Fate : — long  time  was  He          \ 

By  Powers  celestial  toss'd  on  land  and  sea,    1 

Through  wrathful  Juno's  far-famed  enmity  ;J  5 

Much,  too,  from  war  endured ;  till  new  abodes 

He  planted,  and  in  Latium  fix'd  his  Gods ; 

Whence  flowed  the  Latin  People ;  whence  have  come 

The  Alban  Sires,  and  Walls  of  lofty  Rome. 

Say,  Muse,  what  Powers  were  wrong 'd,  what  grievance  drove   10 
To  such  extremity  the  Spouse  of  Jove, 
Labouring  to  wrap  in  perils,  to  astound  \ 

With  woes,  a  Man  for  piety  renown'd !  | 

In  heavenly  breasts  is  such  resentment  found  ?  J 

Right  opposite  tbB  Italian  Coast  there  stood  15 

An  ancient  City,  far  from  Tiber's  flood, 
Carthage  its  name ;  a  Colony  of  Tyre, 
Rich,  strong,  and  bent  on  war  with  fierce  desire. 
No  region,  not  even  Samos,  was  so  graced 

By  Juno's  favour ;  here  her  Arms  were  placed,  20 

Here  lodged  her  Chariot ;  and  unbounded  scope, 
Even  then,  the  Goddess  gave  to  partial  hope ; 
Her  aim  (if  Fate  such  triumph  will  allow) 
That  to  this  Nation  all  the  world  shall  bow. 

But  Fame  had  told  her  that  a  Race,  from  Troy  25 

Derived,  the  Tyrian  ramparts  would  destroy ; 

5  Through  Juno's  unrelenting  MS. 


That  from  this  stock  a  People,  proud  in  war. 

And  train'd  to  spread  dominion  wide  and  far, 

Should  come,  and  through  her  favorite  Lybian  State 

Spread  utter  ruin ; — such  the  doom  of  Fate.  30 

In  fear  of  this,  while  busy  thought  recalls 

The  war  she  raised  against  the  Trojan  Walls 

For  her  lov'd  Argos  (and,  with  these  combined, 

Work'd  other  causes  rankling  in  her  mind, 

The  judgement  given  by  Paris,  and  the  slight  35 

Her  beauty  had  receiv'd  on  Ida's  height, 

Th'  undying  hatred  which  the  Race  had  bred, 

And  honours  given  to  ravish'd  Ganymed), 

Saturnian  Juno  far  from  Latium  chaced 

The  Trojans,  tossed  upon  the  watery  waste ;  40 

Unhappy  relics  of  the  Grecian  spear 

And  of  the  dire  Achilles !   Many  a  year 

They  roam'd  ero  Fate's  decision  was  fulfill'd, 

Such  arduous  toil  it  was  the  Roman  State  to  build. 

Sicilian  headlands  scarcely  out  of  sight,  45 

They  spread  the  canvas  with  a  fresh  delight ; 
Then  Juno,  brooding  o'er  the  eternal  wound, 
Thus  inly; — '"Must  I  vanquish'd  quit  the  ground 
Of  my  attempt  ?     Or  impotently  toil 

To  bar  the  Trojans  from  the  Italian  soil  ?  50 

For  the  Fates  thwart  me ; — yet  could  Pallas  raise 
'Mid  Argive  vessels  a  destructive  blaze, 
And  in  the  Deep  plunge  all,  for  fault  of  one, 
The  desperate  frenzy  of  Oileus'  Son ; 

She  from  the  clouds  the  bolt  of  Jove  might  cast,  55 

And  ships  and  sea  deliver  to  the  blast! 
Him,  flames  ejecting  from  a  bosom  fraught 
With  sulphurous  fire,  she  in  a  whirlwind  caught, 
And  on  a  sharp  rock  fix'd ; — but  I  who  move 

Heaven's  Queen,  the  Sister  and  the  Wife  of  Jove,  60 

Wage  with  one  Race  the  war  I  waged  of  yore !  \ 
Who  then,  henceforth,  will  Juno's  name  adore  ?  > 
Her  altars  grace  with  gifts,  her  aid  implore  ?"  J 

These  things  revolved  in  fiery  discontent, 

Her  course  the  Goddess  to  -^Eolia  bent,  65 

Country  of  lowering  clouds,  where  South -winds  rave ; 
There  ^Eolus,  within  a  spacious  cave 
With  sovereign  power  controuls  the  struggling  Winds, 
And  the  sonorous  Storms  in  durance  binds. 

Loud,  loud  the  mountain  murmurs  as  they  wreak  70 

Their  scorn  upon  the  barriers.   On  a  peak 


High-seated,  ^Eolus  his  sceptre  sways, 

Soothes  their  fierce  temper,  and  their  wrath  allays. 

This  did  he  not, — sea,  earth,  and  heaven's  vast  deep 

Would  follow  them,  entangled  in  the  sweep ;  75 

But  in  black  caves  the  Sire  Omnipotent 

The  winds  sequester'd,  fearing  such  event ; 

Heap'd  over  them  vast  mountains,  and  assigned 

A  Monarch,  that  should  rule  the  blustering  kind ; 

By  stedfast  laws  their  violence  restrain,  80 

And  give,  on  due  command,  a  loosen'd  rein. 

As  she  approached,  thus  spake  the  suppliant  Queen: 

"^olus!  (for  the  Sire  of  Gods  and  men 

On  thee  confers  the  power  to  tranquillise 

The  troubFd  waves,  or  summon  them  to  rise)  85 

A  Race,  my  Foes,  bears  o'er  the  troubled  Sea 

Troy  and  her  conquer'd  Gods  to  Italy. 

Throw  power  into  the  winds ;  the  ships  submerge, 

Or  part, — and  give  their  bodies  to  the  surge. 

Twice  seven  fair  Nymphs  await  on  my  command,  90 

All  beautiful ; — the  fairest  of  the  Band, 

Deiopeia,  such  desert  to  crown, 

Will  I,  by  stedfast  wedlock,  make  thine  own ; 

In  everlasting  fellowship  with  thee 

To  dwell,  and  yield  a  beauteous  progeny."  95 

To  this  the  God:  "O  Queen,  declare  thy  will 
And  be  it  mine  the  mandate  to  fulfill. 
To  thee  I  owe  my  sceptre,  and  the  place 
Jove's  favour  hath  assign'd  me ;  through  thy  grace 
I  at  the  banquets  of  the  Gods  recline ;  100 

And  my  whole  empire  is  a  gift  of  thine." 

When  ^Eolus  had  ceased,  his  spear  he  bent 
Full  on  the  quarter  where  the  winds  were  pent, 
And  smote  the  mountain. — Forth,  where  way  was  made, 
Rush  his  wild  Ministers;  the  land  pervade,  105 

And  fasten  on  the  Deep.   There  Eurus,  there 
Notus,  and  Africus  unused  to  spare 
His  tempests,  work  with  congregated  power, 
To  upturn  the  abyss,  and  roll  the  unwieldy  waves  ashore. 
Clamour  of  Men  ensues,  and  crash  of  shrouds,  no 

Heaven  and  the  day  by  the  instantaneous  clouds 
Are  ravish'd  from  the  Trojans ;  on  the  floods 
Black  night  descends,  and,  palpably,  there  broods. 
The  thundering  Poles  incessantly  unsheath 
Their  fires,  and  all  things  threaten  instant  death.  115 

APPENDIX   A  289 

AppalPd,  and  with  slack  limbs  ^Eneae  stands ; 
He  groans,  and  heavenward  lifting  his  clasp'd  hands, 
Exclaims:  "Thrice  happy  they  who  chanc'd  to  fall 
In  front  of  lofty  Ilium's  sacred  Wall, 

Their  parents  witnessing  their  end ; — Oh  why,  120 

Bravest  of  Greeks,  Tydides,  could  not  I 
Pour  out  my  willing  spirit  through  a  wound 
From  thy  right  hand  received,  on  Trojan  ground  ? 
Where  Hector  lies,  subjected  to  the  spear 

Of  the  invincible  Achilles ;  where  125 

The  great  Sarpedon  sleeps;  and  o'er  the  plain  \ 
Soft  Simois  whirls  helmet,  and  shield,  and  men,  > 
Throngs  of  the  Brave  in  fearless  combat  slain!"; 

While  thus  he  spake,  the  Aquilonian  gale 

Smote  from  the  front  upon  his  driving  Sail,  130 

And  heaved  the  thwarted  billows  to  the  sky, 
Round  the  Ship  labouring  in  extremity. 
Help  from  her  shatter 'd  oars  in  vain  she  craves ; 
Then  veers  the  prow,  exposing  to  the  waves 

Her  side ;  and  lo !  a  surge,  to  mountain  height  135 

Gathering,  prepares  to  burst  with  its  whole  weight. 
Those  hang  aloft,  as  if  in  air :  to  these 
Earth  is  disclosed  between  the  boiling  seas 
Whirl'd  on  by  Notus,  three  encounter  shocks 

In  the  main  sea,  received  from  latent  rocks ;  140 

Rocks  stretched  in  dorsal  ridge  of  rugged  frame 
On  the  Deep's  surface ;  AI/TABS  is  the  name 
By  which  the  Italians  mark  them.   Three  the  force 
Of  Eurus  hurries  from  an  open  course 

On  straits  and  Shallows,  dashes  on  the  strand,  145 

And  girds  the  wreck  about  with  heaps  of  sand. 
Another,  on  which  Lyeus  and  his  Mate, 
Faithful  Orontes,  share  a  common  fate, 
As  his  own  eyes  full  plainly  can  discern, 

By  a  huge  wave  is  swept  from  prow  to  stern ;  150 

Headlong  the  Pilot  falls ;  thrice  whirl'd  around, 
The  Ship  is  buried  in  the  gulph  profound. 

Amid  the  boundless  eddy  a  lost  Few,  \ 

Drowning,  or  drown'd,  emerge  to  casual  view ;  ) 

On  waves  which  planks,  and  arms,  and  Trojan  wealth  bestrew.  J     155 
Over  the  strong-ribb'd  pinnace,  in  which  sails 
Ilioneus,  the  Hurricane  prevails ; 
Now  conquers  Abas,  then  the  Ships  that  hold 
Valiant  Achates,  and  Alethes  old ; 

The  joints  all  loosening  in  their  sides,  they  drink  160 

The  hostile  brine  through  many  a  greedy  chink. 
917.17  IV  U 

290  APPENDIX   A 

Meanwhile,  what  strife  disturb 'd  the  roaring  sea, 
And  for  what  outrages  the  storm  was  free, 
Troubling  the  Ocean  to  its  inmost  caves, 

Neptune  perceiv'd  incensed;  and  o'er  the  waves  165 

Forth -looking  with  a  stedfast  brow  and  eye 
Raised  from  the  Deep  in  placid  majesty, 
He  saw  the  Trojan  Gallies  scattered  wide,  \ 

The  men  they  bore  oppress'd  and  terrified ;  J 

Waters  and  ruinous  Heaven  against  their  peace  allied.;  170 

Nor  from  the  Brother  was  conceal'd  the  heat 
Of  Juno's  anger,  and  each  dark  deceit. 
Eurus  he  call'd,  and  Zephyrus, — and  the  Pair, 
Who  at  his  bidding  quit  the  fields  of  air, 

He  thus  address'd;  "Upon  your  Birth  and  Kind  175 

Have  ye  presumed  with  confidence  so  blind 
As,  heedless  of  my  Godhead,  to  perplex 
The  Land  with  uproar,  and  the  Sea  to  vex ; 
Which  by  your  act,  O  winds !  thus  fiercely  heaves 
Whom  I — but  better  calm  the  troubled  waves.  180 

Henceforth,  atonement  shall  not  prove  so  slight 
For  such  a  trespass ;  to  your  King  take  flight, 
And  say  that  not  to  Him,  but  unto  Me, 
Fate  hath  assigned  this  watery  sovereignty ; 

Mine  is  the  Trident — his  a  rocky  Hold,  185 

Thy  mansion,  Eurus ! — vaunting  uncontroll'd, 
Let  JSolus  there  occupy  his  hall, 
And  in  that  prison-house  the  winds  enthrall!" 

He  spake ;  and,  quicker  than  the  word,  his  will 
Felt  through  the  sea  abates  each  tumid  hill,  190 

Quiets  the  deep,  and  silences  the  shores, 
And  to  a  cloudless  heaven  the  sun  restores. 
Cymothoe  shoves,  with  leaning  Triton's  aid, 
The  stranded  ships — or  Neptune  from  their  bed 
With  his  own  Trident  lifts  them; — then  divides       \  195 

The  sluggish  heaps  of  sand — and  gently  glides,         1 
Skimming,  on  light  smooth  wheels,  the  level  tides.  J 
Thus  oft,  when  a  sedition  hath  ensued, 
Arousing  all  the  ignoble  multitude, 

Straight  through  the  air  do  stones  and  torches  fly,  200 

With  every  missile  frenzy  can  supply ; 
Then,  if  a  venerable  Man  step  forth, 
Strong  through  acknowledged  piety  and  worth, 
Hush'd  at  the  sight  into  mute  peace,  all  stand 
Listening,  with  eyes  and  ears  at  his  command ;  205 

Their  minds  to  him  are  subject;  and  the  rage 

APPENDIX   A  291 

That  burns  within  their  breasts  his  lenient  words  assuage. 

So  fell  the  Sea's  whole  tumult,  overawed 

Then,  when  the  Sire,  casting  his  eyes  abroad, 

Turns  under  open  Heaven  his  docile  Steeds,  210 

And  with  his  flowing  Chariot  smoothly  speeds. 

The  worn-out  Trojans,  seeking  land  where'er 
The  nearest  coast  invites,  for  Lybia  steer. 
There  is  a  Bay  whose  deep  retirement  hides        \ 
The  place  where  Nature's  self  a  Port  provides,    }  215 

Framed  by  a  friendly  island's  jutting  sides,         J 
Bulwark  from  which  the  billows  of  the  Main 
Becoil  upon  themselves,  spending  their  force  in  vain. 
Vast  rocks  are  here ;  and,  safe  beneath  the  brows 
Of  two  heaven-threatening  Cliffs,  the  Floods  repose.  220 

Glancing  aloft  in  bright  theatric  show 
Woods  wave,  and  gloomily  impend  below ; 
Right  opposite  this  pomp  of  sylvan  shade, 
Wild  crags  and  lowering  rocks  a  cave  have  made ; 
Within,  sweet  waters  gush ;  and  all  bestrown  225 

Is  the  cool  floor  with  seats  of  living  stone ; 
Cell  of  the  Nymphs,  no  chains,  no  anchors,  here 
Bind  the  tired  vessels,  floating  without  fear ; 
Led  by  ^Eneas,  in  this  shelter  meet 

Seven  ships,  the  scanty  relics  of  his  Fleet ;  230 

The  Crews,  athirst  with  longings  for  the  land, 
Here  disembark,  and  range  the  wish 'd -for  strand  ; 
Or  on  the  sunny  shore  their  limbs  recline, 
Heavy  with  dropping  ooze,  and  drench'd  with  brine. 
Achates,  from  a  smitten  flint,  receives  235 

The  spark  upon  a  bed  of  fostering  leaves ; 
Dry  fuel  on  the  natural  hearth  he  lays, 
And  speedily  provokes  a  mounting  blaze. 
Then  forth  they  bring,  not  utterly  forlorn, 

The  needful  implements,  and  injured  corn,  240 

Bruise  it  with  stones,  and  by  the  aid  of  fire 
Prepare  the  nutriment  their  frames  require. 

Meanwhile  ^Eneas  mounts  a  cliff,  to  gain 
An  unobstructed  prospect  of  the  Main ; 

Happy  if  thence  his  wistful  eyes  may  mark  245 

The  harassed  Antheus,  or  some  Phrygian  Bark, 
Or  Capys,  or  the  guardian  Sign  descry 
Which,  at  the  stern,  Caicus  bears  on  high. 
No  Sail  appears  in  sight,  nor  toiling  oar ; 
Only  he  spies  three  Stags  upon  the  shore ;  250 

292  APPENDIX   A 

Behind,  whole  herds  are  following  where  these  lead, 

And  in  long  order  through  the  vallies  feed. 

He  stops — and,  with  the  bow,  he  seiz'd  the  store 

Of  swift- wing 'd  arrows  which  Achates  bore ; 

And  first  the  Leaders  to  his  shafts  have  bow'd  255 

Their  heads  elate  with  branching  horns ;  the  Crowd 

Are  stricken  next ;  and  all  the  affrighted  Drove 

Fly  in  confusion  to  the  leafy  grove. 

Nor  from  the  weapons  doth  his  hand  refrain,  "j 

Till  Seven,  a  Stag  for  every  Ship,  are  slain,     >  260 

And  with  their  bulky  bodies  press  the  plain.  J 

Thence  to  the  port  he  hies,  divides  the  spoil ; 

And  deals  out  wine,  which  on  Trinacria's  soil, 

Acestes  stored  for  his  departing  Guest ; 

Then  with  these  words  he  soothes  each  sorrowing  breast.  265 

"O  Friends,  not  unacquainted  with  your  share 
Of  misery,  ere  doom'd  these  ills  to  bear! 
O  ye,  whom  worse  afflictions  could  not  bend ! 
Jove  also  hath  for  these  prepared  an  end. 

The  voices  of  dread  Scylla  ye  have  heard,  270 

Her  belt  of  rabid  mouths  your  prows  have  near'd ; 
Ye  shunn'd  with  peril  the  Cyclopian  den, 
Cast  off  your  fears,  resume  the  hearts  of  men ! 
Hereafter,  this  our  present  lot  may  be 

A  cherish'd  object  for  pleased  memory.  275 

Through  strange  mishaps,  through  hazards  manifold 
And  various,  we  our  course  to  Latium  hold ; 
There,  Fate  a  settled  habitation  shows ; — 
There,  Trojan  empire  (this,  too,  Fate  allows) 

Shall  be  revived.   Endure ;  with  patience  wait ;  280 

Yourselves  reserving  for  a  happier  state!" 

^Eneas  thus,  though  sidk  with  weight  of  care, 
Strives,  by  apt  words  their  spirits  to  repair ; 
The  hope  he  does  not  feel  his  countenance  feigns, 
And  deep  within  he  smothers  his  own  pains.  285 

They  seize  the  Quarry ;  for  the  feast  prepare ; 
Part  use  their  skill  the  carcase  to  lay  bare, 
Stripping  from  off  the  limbs  the  dappled  hide ; 
And  Part  the  palpitating  flesh  divide  ; 

The  portions  some  expose  to  naked  fire,  290 

Some  steep  in  cauldrons  where  the  flames  aspire. 
Not  wanting  utensils,  they  spread  the  board ; 
And  soon  their  wasted  vigour  is  restored ; 
While  o'er  green  turf  diffused,  in  genial  mood 
They  quaff  the  mellow  wine,  nor  spare  the  forest  food.  295 

APPENDIX   A  293 

All  hunger  thus  appeased,  they  ask  in  thought 

For  friends,  with  long  discourses,  vainly  sought: 

Hope,  fear,  and  doubt  contend  if  yet  they  live,  "j 

Or  have  endured  the  last ;  nor  can  receive  1 

The  obsequies  a  duteous  voice  might  give.  J  300 

Apart,  for  Lycas  mourns  the  pious  Chief; 

For  Amycus  is  touch'd  with  silent  grief; 

For  Gyas,  for  Cloanthes ;  and  the  Crew 

That  with  Orontes  perish 'd  in  his  view. 

So  finished  their  repast,  while  on  the  crown  305 

Of  Heaven  stood  Jupiter ;  whence  looking  down, 
He  traced  the  sea  where  winged  vessels  glide, 
Saw  Lands,  and  shores,  the  Nations  scatter'd  wide ; 
And,  lastly,  from  that  all-commanding  Height, 
He  view'd  the  Lybian  realms  with  stedfast  sight.  310 

To  him,  revolving  mortal  hopes  and  fears, 
Venus  (her  shining  eyes  suffused  with  tears) 
Thus,  sorrowing,  spake:  "O  Sire!  who  rul'st  the  way 
Of  Men  and  Gods  with  thy  eternal  sway, 

And  aw'st  with  thunder,  what  offence,  unfit  315 

For  pardon,  could  my  much-lov'd  Son  commit — 
The  Trojans  what — thine  anger  to  awake  ? 
That,  after  such  dire  loss,  they  for  the  sake 
Of  Italy  see  all  the  world  denied 

To  their  tired  hopes,  and  nowhere  may  abide !  320 

For,  that  the  Romans  hence  should  draw  their  birth 
As  years  roll  round,  even  hence,  and  govern  earth 
With  power  supreme,  from  Teucer's  Line  restor'd 
Such  was  (O  Father,  why  this  change  ?)  thy  word. 
From  this,  when  Troy  had  perish 'd,  for  my  grief  325 

(Fates  balancing  with  fates)  I  found  relief; 
Like  fortune  follows : — when  shall  thy  decree 
Close,  mighty  King,  this  long  adversity  ? 
— Antenor,  from  amid  the  Grecian  hosts 

Escaped,  could  thrid  Illyria's  sinuous  coasts ;  330 

Pierce  the  Lyburnian  realms ;  o'erclimb  the  Fountain 
Of  loud  Timarus,  whence  the  murmuring  Mountain 
A  nine-mouth'd  channel  to  the  torrent  yields, 
That  rolls  its  headlong  sea,  a  terror  to  the  fields. 
Yet  to  his  Paduan  seats  he  safely  came ;  335 

A  City  built,  whose  People  bear  his  name ; 
There  hung  his  Trojan  Arms,  where  now  he  knows 
The  consummation  of  entire  repose. 

But  we,  thy  progeny,  allow'd  to  boast  \ 

Of  future  Heaven — betray'd, — our  Navy  lost —  1  340 

Through  wrath  of  One,  are  driven  far  from  the  Italian  coast,  j 

294  APPENDIX   A 

Is  piety  thus  honour 'd  ?  Doth  thy  grace 

Thus  in  our  hands  the  allotted  sceptre  place  ?  " 

On  whom  the  Sire  of  Gods  and  human  Kind 

Half -smiling,  tum'd  the  look  that  stills  the  wind  345 

And  clears  the  heavens ;  then,  touching  with  light  kiss 
His  Daughter's  lip,  he  speaks : 

"Thy  griefs  dismiss: 

And,  Cytherea,  these  forebodings  spare ; 
No  wavering  fates  deceive  the  objects  of  thy  care, 
Lavinian  Walls  full  surely  wilt  thou  see,  35 o 

The  promised  City ;  and,  upborne  by  thee, 
Magnanimous  ^Eneas  yet  shall  range 
The  starry  heavens ;  nor  doth  my  purpose  change. 
He  (since  thy  soul  is  troubled  I  will  raise 

Things  from  their  depths,  and  open  Fate's  dark  ways)  355 

Shall  wage  dread  wars  in  Italy,  abate 
Fierce  Nations,  build  a  Town  and  rear  a  State ; 
Till  three  revolving  summers  have  beheld 
His  Latian  kingdom,  the  Rutuliaiis  quell'd. 

But  young  Ascanius  (llus  heretofore,  360 

Name  which  he  held  till  Ilium  was  no  more, 
Now  called  lulus)  while  the  months  repeat 
Their  course,  and  thirty  annual  orbs  complete, 
Shall  reign,  and  quit  Lavinium  to  preside 

O'er  Alba-longa,  sternly  fortified.  365 

Here,  under  Chiefs  of  this  Hectorian  Race, 
Three  hundred  years  shall  empire  hold  her  place, 
Ere  Ilia,  royal  Priestess,  gives  to  earth 
From  the  embrace  of  Mars,  a  double  birth. 

Then  Romulus,  the  elder,  proudly  drest  370 

In  tawny  wolf-skin,  his  memorial  vest, 
Mavortian  Walls,  his  Father's  Seat,  shall  frame, 
And  from  himself,  the  People  Romans  name. 
To  these  I  give  dominion  that  shall  climb 

Unchecked  by  space,  uncircumscrib'd  by  time;  375 

An  empire  without  end.   Even  Juno,  driven 
To  agitate  with  fear  earth,  sea  and  heaven, 
With  better  mind  shall  for  the  past  atone :  •       \ 

Prepar'd  with  me  to  cherish  as  her  own  | 

The  Romans,  lords  o'er  earth,  The  Nation  of  the  Gown.  J  380 

So  'tis  decreed.  As  circling  times  roll  on 
Phthia  shall  fall,  Mycenae  shall  be  won ; 
Descendants  of  Assaracus  shall  reign 
O'er  Argos  subject  to  the  Victor's  chain. 
From  a  fair  Stem  shall  Trojan  Caesar  rise ;  385 

APPENDIX   A  296 

Ocean  may  terminate  his  power; — the  skies 

Can  be  the  only  limit  of  his  fame ; 

A  Julius  he,  inheriting  the  name 

From  great  lulus.  Fearless  shalt  thou  greet 

The  Ruler,  when  to  his  celestial  Seat  390 

He  shall  ascend,  spoil -laden  from  the  East ; 

He,  too,  a  God  to  be  with  vows  address'd. 

Then  shall  a  rugged  Age,  full  long  defiTd 

With  cruel  wars,  grow  placable  and  mild ; 

Then  hoary  Faith,  and  Vesta,  shall  delight^  395 

To  speak  their  laws,  Quirinus  shall  unite      j 

With  his  twin  Brother  to  uphold  the  right.  J 

Fast  shall  be  closed  the  iron-bolted  Gates 

Upon  whose  dreadful  issues  Janus  waits 

Within,  on  high-piled  Arms,  and  from  behind  400 

With  countless  links  of  brazen  chains  confin'd 

Shall  Fury  sit,  breathing  unholy  threats 

From  his  ensanguin'd  mouth  that  impotently  frets." 

This  utter'd,  Maia's  Son  he  sends  from  high 

To  embolden  Tyrian  hospitality ;  405 

Lest  haply  Dido,  ignorant  of  fate, 
Should  chase  the  Wanderers  from  her  rising  State. 
He  through  the  azure  region  works  the  oars 
Of  his  swift  wings,  and  lights  on  Lybian  Shores. 
Prompt  is  he  there  his  mission  to  fulfil;  410 

The  Tyrians  soften,  yielding  to  Jove's  will ; — 
And,  above  all,  their  Queen  receives  a  mind 
Fearless  of  harm,  and  to  the  Trojans  kind. 

JEneas,  much  revolving  through  the  night, 

Rose  with  the  earliest  break  of  friendly  light ;  415 

Resolv'd  to  certify  by  instant  quest 
Who  ruTd  the  uncultur'd  region — man  or  beast. 
Forthwith  he  hides,  beneath  a  rocky  cove, 
His  Fleet,  o'ershadow'd  by  the  pendent  grove; 
And,  brandishing  two  javelins,  quits  the  Bay,  420 

Achates  sole  companion  of  his  way. 
While  they  were  journeying  thus,  before  him  stood 
His  Mother,  met  within  a  shady  wood. 
The  habit  of  a  virgin  did  she  wear ; 

Her  aspect  suitable,  her  gait,  and  air ; —  435 

Arm'd  like  a  Spartan  Virgin,  or  of  mien 
Such  as  in  Thrace  Harpalyce  is  seen, 
Urging  to  weariness  the  fiery  horse, 
Outstripping  Hebrus  in  his  headlong  course. 

296  APPENDIX   A 

Light  o'er  her  shoulders  had  she  given  the  bow  430 

To  hang ;  her  tresses  on  the  wind  to  flow ; 

— A  Huntress  with  bare  knee ; — a  knot  upbound 

The  folds  of  that  loose  vest,  which  else  had  swept  the  ground. 

"Ho!"  she  exclaim'd,  their  words  preventing,  "say 

Have  you  not  seen  some  Huntress  here  astray,  435 

One  of  my  Sisters,  with  a  quiver  graced ;  \ 

Clothed  by  the  spotted  lynx,  and  o'er  the  waste    1 

Pressing  the  foaming  boar,  with  outcry  chased  ?"  J 

Thus  Venus ; — thus  her  Son  forthwith  replied, 
"None  of  thy  Sisters  have  we  here  espied,  440 

None  have  we  heard : — O  Virgin !  in  pure  grace 
Teach  me  to  name  Thee ;  for  no  mortal  face 
Is  thine,  nor  bears  thy  voice  a  human  sound ; — 
A  Goddess  surely,  worthy  to  be  own'd 

By  Phoebus  as  a  Sister — or  thy  Line  445 

Is  haply  of  the  Nymphs ;  O  Power  divine 
Be  thou  propitious !  and,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
Lighten  our  labour ;  tell  us  in  what  part 
Of  earth  we  roam,  who  these  wild  precincts  trace, 
Ignorant  alike  of  person  and  of  place !  450 

Not  as  intruders  come  we :  but  were  tost 
By  winds  and  waters  on  this  savage  coast. 
Vouchsafe  thy  answer ;  victims  oft  shall  fall 
By  this  right  hand,  while  on  thy  name  we  call." 

Then  Venus ; — "Offerings  these  which  I  disclaim  455 

The  Tyrian  Maids  who  chase  the  sylvan  game 
Bear  thus  a  quiver  slung  their  necks  behind, 
With  purple  buskins  thus  their  ancles  bind ; 
Learn,  Wanderers,  that  a  Punic  Bealm  you  see. 
Tyrians  the  men,  Agenor's  progeny ;  460 

But  Lybian  deem  the  soil ;  the  natives  are 
Haughty  and  fiercfc,  intractable  in  war. 
Here  Dido  reigns ;  from  Tyre  compell'd  to  flee 
By  an  unnatural  Brother's  perfidy ; 

Deep  was  the  wrong ;  nor  would  it  aught  avail  465 

Should  we  do  more  than  skim  the  doleful  tale. 
Sichseus  lov'd  her  as  his  wedded  Mate, 
The  richest  Lord  of  the  Phoenician  State ; 
A  Virgin  She,  when  from  her  Father's  hands 

By  love  induced,  she  pass'd  to  nuptial  bands ;  470 

Unhappy  Union !  for  to  evil  prone, 
Worst  of  bad  men,  her  Brother  held  the  throne ; 
Dire  fury  came  among  them,  and,  made  bold 
By  that  blind  appetite,  the  thirst  of  gold, 

APPENDIX   A  297 

He,  feeling  not,  or  scorning  what  was  due  475 

To  a  Wife's  tender  love,  Sichseus  slew ; 

Rush'd  on  him  unawares,  and  laid  him  low 

Before  the  Altar,  with  an  impious  blow. 

His  arts  conceal'd  the  crime,  and  gave  vain  scope 

In  Dido's  bosom  to  a  trembling  hope.  480 

But  in  a  dream  appeared  the  unburied  Man, 

Lifting  a  visage  wondrous  pale  and  wan ; 

Urged  her  to  instant  flight,  and  shew'd  the  Ground 

Where  hoards  of  ancient  treasure  might  be  found, 

Needful  assistance.   By  the  Vision  sway'd,  485 

Dido  looks  out  for  fellowship  and  aid. 

They  meet,  who  loathe  the  Tyrant,  or  who  fear ; 

And,  as  some  well-trimm'd  Ships  were  lying  near, 

This  help  they  seiz'd ;  and  o'er  the  water  fled 

With  all  Pygmalion's  wealth ; — a  Woman  at  their  head.  490 

The  Exiles  reach'd  the  Spot,  where  soon  your  eyes 

Shall  see  the  Turrets  of  New  Carthage  rise ; 

There  purchased  BABCA  ;  so  they  nam'd  the  Ground 

From  the  bull's  hide  whose  thongs  had  girt  it  round. 

Now  say — who  are  Ye  ?  Whence  and  whither  bound  ?"  495 

He  answer 'd,  deeply  sighing,  "To  their  springs 
Should  I  trace  back  the  principles  of  things 
For  you,  at  leisure  listening  to  our  woes,  \ 

Vesper,  mid  gathering  shadows  to  repose  > 

Might  lead  the  day,  before  the  Tale  would  close.;  500 

— From  ancient  Troy,  if  haply  ye  have  heard 
The  name  of  Troy,  through  various  seas  we  steer'd, 
Until  on  Lybian  Shores  an  adverse  blast 
By  chance  not  rare  our  shatter'd  vessels  cast. 

^Eneas  am  I,  wheresoe'er  I  go  505 

Carrying  the  Gods  I  rescued  from  the  Foe, 
When  Troy  was  overthrown.   A  Man  you  see 
Fam'd  above  Earth  for  acts  of  piety ; 
Italy  is  my  wish'd-for  resting  place ; 

There  doth  my  Country  lie,  among  a  Race  510 

Sprung  from  high  Jove.   The  Phrygian  Sea  I  tried 
With  thrice  ten  Ships  which  Ida's  Grove  supplied, 
My  Goddess  Mother  pointing  out  the  way, 
Nor  did  unwilling  Fates  oppose  their  sway. 

Seven,  scarcely,  of  that  number  now  are  left  515 

By  tempests  torn ; — myself  unknown,  bereft, 
And  destitute,  explore  the  Lybian  Waste, 

497  those  melancholy  things  MS. 

298  APPENDIX   A 

Alike  from  Europe  and  from  Asia  chas'd." 

He  spake ;  nor  haply  at  this  point  had  clos'd 

His  mournful  words:  but  Venus  interpos'd.  520 

"Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  trust,  the  heavenly  Powers 
Disown  thee  not,  so  near  the  Punic  Towers ; 
But  hasten  to  the  Queen's  imperial  Court ; 
Thy  Friends  survive ;  their  Ships  are  safe  in  port, 
Indebted  for  the  shelter  which  they  find  525 

To  alter'd  courses  of  the  rough  North-wind ; 
Unless  fond  Parents  taught  my  simple  youth 
Deceitful  auguries,  I  announce  the  truth. 
Behold  yon  twelve  fair  Swans,  a  joyous  troop ! 
Them  did  the  Bird  of  Jove,  with  threatening  swoop  530 

Rout,  in  mid  Heaven  dispers'd ;  but  now  again 
Have  they  assembled,  and  in  order'd  train 
These  touch,  while  those  look  down  upon,  the  plain, 
Hovering,  and  wheeling  round  with  tuneful  voice. 
— As  in  recovered  union  all  rejoice ;  535 

So,  with  their  Crews,  thy  Ships  in  harbour  lie, 
Or  to  some  haven's  mouth  are  drawing  nigh 
With  every  Sail  full-spread ;  but  Thou  proceed ; 
And  fear  no  hindrance  where  thy  path  shall  lead." 

She  spake ;  and,  as  she  turn'd  away,  all  bright  54° 

Appear 'd  her  neck,  imbued  with  roseate  light ; 
And  from  the  exalted  region  of  her  head 
Ambrosial  hair  a  sudden  fragrance  shed, 
Odours  divinely  breathing ; — her  Vest  flow'd 

Down  to  her  feet ; — and  gait  and  motion  shew'd  545 

The  unquestionable  Goddess.  Whom  his  eyes^j 
Had  seen  and  whom  his  soul  could  recognise,  > 
His  filial  voice  pursueth  as  she  flies.  J 

"Why  dost  Thou,  cruel  as  the  rest,  delude 

Thy  Son  with  Phantoms  evermore  renew 'd  ?  550 

Why  not  allow  me  hand  with  hand  to  join, 
To  hear  thy  genuine  voice,  and  to  reply  with  mine  ?" 
This  chiding  utter 'd  from  a  troubl'd  breast, 
He  to  the  appointed  walls  his  steps  address'd. 
But  Venus  round  him  threw,  as  on  they  fare,  555 

Impenetrable  veil  of  misty  air ; 

That  none  might  see,  or  touch  them  with  rude  hand. 
Obstruct  their  journey,  or  its  cause  demand. 
She,  borne  aloft,  resumes  the  joyful  road 
That  leads  to  Paphos — her  belov'd  abode:  560 

534  And  wheel  on  whizzing  wings  with  tuneful  voice  MS.,  S.  H.  corr. 

APPENDIX    A  299 

There  stands  her  Temple ;  garlands  fresh  and  fair  \ 
Breathe  round  a  hundred  Altars  hung,  which  there  J 
Burn  with  Sabean  incense,  scenting  all  the  air.  / 

They  who  had  measur'd  a  swift  course  were  now 
Climbing,  as  swift,  a  hill  of  lofty  brow,  565 

That  overhangs  wide  compass  of  the  Town, 
And  on  the  turrets,  which  it  fronts,  looks  down, 
^Eneas  views  the  City — pile  on  pile 
Rising — a  place  of  sordid  Huts  erewhile ; 

And,  as  he  looks,  the  gates,  the  stretching  ways,  57o 

The  stir,  the  din,  encreasing  wonder  raise. 
The  Tyrians  work — one  spirit  in  the  whole ; 
These  stretch  the  walls ;  these  labour  to  uproll 
Stones  for  the  Citadel,  with  all  their  might ; 

These,  for  new  Structures  having  mark'd  a  site,  575 

Intrench  the  circuit.    Some  on  laws  debate, 
Or  chuse  a  Senate  for  the  infant  State ; 
Some  dig  the  haven  out ;  some  toil  to  place 
A  Theatre,  on  deep  arid  solid  base ; 

Some  from  the  rock  hew  columns,  to  compose  580 

A  goodly  ornament  for  future  Shows. 
— Fresh  summer  calls  the  Bees  such  tasks  to  ply 
Through  flowery  grounds,  beneath  a  summer  sky ; 
When  first  they  lead  their  progeny  abroad, 

Each  fit  to  undertake  his  several  load ;  585 

Or  in  a  mass  the  liquid  produce  blend, 
And  with  pure  nectar  every  cell  distend ; 
Or,  fast  as  homeward  Labourers  arrive,  \ 

Receive  the  freight  they  bring ;  or  mustering,  drive  > 
The  Drones,  a  sluggard  people,  from  the  hive.  J  590 

Glows  the  vast  work ;  while  thyme -clad  hills  and  plains 
Scent  the  pure  honey  that  rewards  their  pains. 
44 Oh  fortunate!"  the  Chief,  ^neas,  cries         \ 
As  on  the  aspiring  Town  he  casts  his  eyes,     J 

"Fortunate  Ye,  whose  walls  are  free  to  rise !"  J  593 

Then,  strange  to  tell !  with  mist  around  him  thrown, 
In  crowds  he  mingles,  yet  is  seen  by  none. 

Within  the  Town,  a  central  Grove  display 'd 
Its  ample  texture  of  delightful  shade. 

The  storm- vex 'd  Tyrians,  newly -landed,  found  600 

A  hopeful  sign  while  digging  there  the  ground ; 
The  head  of  a  fierce  horse  from  earth  they  drew, 
By  Juno's  self  presented  to  their  view ; 
Presage  of  martial  fame,  and  hardy  toil 

300  APPENDIX   A 

Bestow'd  through  ages  on  a  generous  soil,  605 

Sidonian  Dido  here  a  Structure  high 

Rais'd  to  the  tutelary  Deity, 

Rich  with  the  Offerings  through  the  Temple  pour'd, 

And  bright  with  Juno's  Image,  there  ador'd. 

High  rose,  with  steps,  the  brazen  Porch;  the  Beams  610 

With  brass  were  fasten 'd ;  and  metallic  gleams 

Flashed  from  the  valves  of  brazen  doors,  forth -sent 

While  on  resounding  hinges  to  and  fro  they  went. 

Within  this  Grove  ^Eneas  first  beheld 

A  novel  sight,  by  which  his  fears  were  quell'd ;  615 

Here  first  gave  way  to  hope,  so  long  withstood, 

And  look'd  through  present  ill  to  future  good. 

For  while,  expectant  of  the  Queen,  the  stores 

Of  that  far -spreading  Temple  he  explores ; 

Admires  the  strife  of  labour ;  nor  forbears    \  620 

To  ponder  o'er  the  lot  of  noble  cares  J 

Which  the  young  City  for  herself  prepares ;  J 

He  meets  the  Wars  of  Ilium ;  every  Fight, 

In  due  succession,  offer'd  to  his  sight. 

There  he  beholds  Atrides,  Priam  here,  625 

And  that  stern  Chief  who  was  to  both  severe. 

He  stopp'd;  and,  not  without  a  sigh,  exclaim'd: 

"By  whom,  Achates!  hath  not  Troy  been  nam'd  ? 

What  region  of  the  earth  but  overflows 

With  us,  and  the  memorials  of  our  woes  ?  630 

Lo  Priamus !   Here  also  do  they  raise 

To  virtuous  deeds  fit  monument  of  praise ; 

Tears  for  the  frail  estate  of  human  kind 

Are  shed ;  and  mortal  changes  touch  the  mind." 

He  spake  (nor  might  the  gushing  tears  controul) ;  635 

And  with  an  empty  Picture  feeds  his  soul. 

He  saw  the  Greeks  fast  flying  o'er  the  plain, 
The  Trojan  Youth — how  in  pursuit  they  strain! 
There,  o'er  the  Phrygians  routed  in  the  war, 

Crested  Achilles  hanging  from  his  Car.  640 

Next,  to  near  view  the  painted  wall  presents 
The  fate  of  Rhesus,  and  his  snow-white  tents, 
In  the  first  sleep  of  silent  night,  betray 'd  \ 
To  the  wide-wasting  sword  of  Diomed,      J 

Who  to  the  camp  the  fiery  horses  led,       J  645 

Ere  they  from  Trojan  stalls  had  tasted  food, 
Or  stoop 'd  their  heads  to  drink  Scamander's  flood. 
— The  Stripling  Troilus  he  next  espied, 
Flying,  his  arms  now  lost,  or  flung  aside ; 

APPENDIX   A  301 

111 -mateh'd  with  fierce  Achilles!  From  the  fight  650 

He,  by  his  horses  borne  in  desperate  flight, 

Cleaves  to  his  empty  Chariot,  on  the  plain 

Supinely  stretch'd,  yet  grasping  still  the  rein ; 

Along  the  earth  are  dragg'd  his  neck  and  hair ; 

The  dust  is  mark'd  by  his  inverted  spear.  655 

Meanwhile,  with  tresses  long  and  loose,  a  train 

Of  Trojan  Matrons  seek  Minerva's  Fane 

As  on  they  bear  the  dedicated  Veil, 

They  beat  their  own  sad  breasts  with  suppliant  wail. 

The  Goddess  heeds  not  offerings,  prayers,  nor  cries,  660 

And  on  the  ground  are  fix'd  her  sullen  eyes. 

—  Thrice  had  incens'd  Achilles  whirl 'd  amain 

About  Troy  Wall,  the  Corse  of  Hector  slain, 

And  barters  now  that  corse  for  proffer'd  gold. 

What  grief,  the  Spoils  and  Chariot  to  behold !  665 

And,  suppliant,  near  his  Friend's  dead  body,  stands 

Old  Priam,  stretching  forth  his  unarm'd  hands ! 

Himself,  mid  Grecian  Chiefs,  he  can  espy ; 

And  saw  the  oriental  blazonry 

Of  swarthy  Memnon,  and  the  Host  he  leads ;  670 

Her  lunar  shields  Penthesilea  leads ; 

A  zone  her  mutilated  breast  hath  bound ; 

And  She,  exulting  on  the  embattled  ground 

A  Virgin  Warrior,  with  a  Virgin  Train, 

Dares  in  the  peril  to  conflict  with  Men.  675 

While  on  these  animated  pictures  gaz'd 
The  Dardan  Chief,  enwrapt,  disturb'd,  amaz'd ; 
With  a  long  retinue  of  Youth,  the  Queen 
Ascends  the  Temple ; — lovely  was  her  mien ; 

And  her  form  beautiful  as  Earth  has  seen ;  680 

Thus,  where  Eurotas  flows,  or  on  the  heights 
Of  Cynthus,  where  Diana  oft  delights 
To  train  her  Nymphs,  and  lead  the  Choirs  along, 
Oreads,  in  thousands  gathering,  round  her  throng ; 
Where'er  she  moves,  where'er  the  Goddess  bears  683 

Her  pendant  sheaf  of  arrows,  she  appears 
Far,  far  above  the  immortal  Company ; 
Latona's  breast  is  thrill'd  with  silent  ecstasy. 
Even  with  such  lofty  bearing  Dido  pass'd 

Among  the  busy  crowd ; — such  looks  she  cast  690 

Urging  the  various  works,  with  mind  intent 
On  future  empire.   Through  the  Porch  she  went, 
And  compass'd  round  with  arm'd  Attendants,  sate 
Beneath  the  Temple's  dome,  upon  a  Throne  of  State, 

302  APPENDIX   A 

There,  laws  she  gave ;  divided  justly  there  695 

The  labour ;  or  by  lot  assigned  to  each  his  share. 

When,  turning  from  the  Throne  a  casual  glance, 

^Eneas  saw  an  eager  Crowd  advance 

With  various  Leaders,  whom  the  storms  of  Heaven 

Had  scattered,  and  to  other  shores  had  driven.  700 

With  Antheus  and  Sergestus  there  appear'd 

The  brave  Cloanthes, — followers  long  endear 'd. 

Joy  smote  his  heart,  joy  temper'd  with  strange  awe ; 

Achates,  in  like  sort,  by  what  he  saw 

Was  smitten ;  and  the  hands  of  both  were  bent  705 

On  instant  greeting;  but  they  fear'd  the  event. 

Stifling  their  wish,  within  that  cloud  involv'd, 

They  wait  until  the  mystery  shall  be  solv'd — 

What  has  befallen  their  Friends ;  upon  what  shore 

The  Fle6t  is  left,  and  what  they  would  implore ;  710 

For  Delegates  from  every  Ship  they  were, 

And  sought  the  Temple  with  a  clamorous  prayer. 

All  entered, — and,  leave  given,  with  tranquil  breast 
Ilioneus  preferr'd  their  joint  request: 

"O  Queen!  empower'd  by  Jupiter  to  found  715 

A  hopeful  City  on  this  desart  ground ; 
To  whom  he  gives  the  curb,  and  guiding  rein 
Of  Justice,  a  proud  People  to  restrain, 
We,  wretched  Trojans,  rescued  from  a  Fleet 

Long  toss'd  through  every  Sea,  thy  aid  entreat ;  720 

Let,  at  thy  voice,  the  unhallow'd  fire  forbear  \ 
To  touch  our  ships ;  a  righteous  People  spare ;  > 
And  on  our  fortunes  look  with  nearer  care !  J 
We  neither  seek  as  plunderers  your  abodes, 

Nor  would  our  swords  molest  your  household  Gods ;  725 

Our  spirit  tempts  us  not  such  course  to  try ; 
Nor  do  the  Vanquished  lift  their  heads  so  high. 
There  is  a  Country  calTd  by  Men  of  Greece 
Hesperia,  strong  in  arms,  the  soil  of  large  increase, 
(Enotrians  held  it ;  Men  of  later  fame  730 

Call  it  Italia,  from  their  Leader's  name. 
That  Land  we  sought ;  when,  wrapt  in  mist,  arose 
Orion,  help'd  by  every  wind  that  blows ; 
Dispers'd  us  utterly — on  shallows  cast ; 

And  we,  we  only,  gain'd  your  shores  at  last.  735 

What  race  of  man  is  here  ?  Was  ever  yet 
The  unnatural  treatment  known  which  we  have  met  ? 
What  country  bears  with  customs  that  deny, 
To  shipwreck'd  men,  such  hospitality 

APPENDIX   A  303 

As  the  sands  offer  on  the  naked  beach,  740 

And  the  first  quiet  of  the  Land  they  reach  ? 

— Arms  were  our  greeting ;  yet,  if  ye  despise  \ 

Man  and  his  power,  look  onward,  and  be  wise ;  ) 

The  Gods  for  right  and  wrong  have  awful  memories.  J 

A  man  to  no  one  second  in  the  care  745 

Of  justice,  nor  in  piety  and  war, 

Ruled  over  us ;  if  yet  ^Erieas  treads 

On  earth,  nor  has  been  summoned  to  the  shades, 

Fear  no  repentance  if,  in  acts  of  grace 

Striving  with  him,  thou  gain  the  foremost  place.  750 

Nor  want  we,  in  Trinacria,  towns  and  plains, 

Where,  sprung  from  Trojan  blood,  Acestes  reigns. 

Grant  leave  to  draw  our  Ships  upon  your  Shores, 

Thence  to  refit  their  shatter 'd  hulks  and  oars. 

Were  Friends  and  Chief  restor'd,  whom  now  we  mourn,  755 

We  to  the  Italian  Coast  with  joy  would  turn, 

Should  Italy  lie  open  to  our  aim ; 

But  if  our  welfare  be  an  empty  name, 

And  Thou,  best  Father  of  the  Family  \ 

Of  Troy,  hast  perish'd  in  the  Lybian  Sea,  >  760 

And  young  lulus  sank,  engulph'd  with  thee, — J 

Then  be  it  ours,  at  least,  to  cross  the  foam      \ 

Of  the  Sicilian  Deep,  and  seek  the  home  > 

Prepar'd  by  good  Acestes,  whence  we  come."J 

Thus  spake  Ilioneus :  his  Friends  around  765 

Declar'd  their  sanction  by  a  murmuring  sound. 

With  downcast  looks,  brief  answer  Dido  made  ; 
* 'Trojans,  be  griefs  dismiss 'd,  anxieties  allay 'd. 
The  pressure  of  occasion,  and  a  reign  \ 

Yet  new,  exact  these  rigours,  and  constrain  J  770 

The  jealous  vigilance  my  coasts  maintain.    J 
The  JEnean  Race,  with  that  heroic  Town — 
And  widely -blazing  war — to  whom  are  they  unknown  ? 
Not  so  obtuse  the  Punic  breasts  we  bear ;    \ 

Nor  does  the  Giver  of  the  Day  so  far  J  775 

From  this  our  Tyrian  City  yoke  his  Car.      J 
But  if  Hesperia  be  your  wish'd-for  bourne, 
Or  to  Trinacrian  shores  your  prows  would  turn, 
Then,  with  all  aids  that  may  promote  your  weal, 
Ye  shall  depart ; — but  if  desire  ye  feel,  780 

Fix'd,  in  this  growing  Realm,  to  share  my  fate, 
Yours  are  the  walls  which  now  I  elevate. 
Haste,  and  withdraw  your  Gallies  from  the  sea, 
— Trojans  and  Tyrians  shall  be  one  to  me. 

304  APPENDIX   A 

Would,  too,  that  storm -compelled  as  ye  have  been,  785 

The  Person  of  your  Chief  might  here  be  seen ! 

By  trusty  servants  shall  my  shores  be  traced 

To  the  last  confines  of  the  Lybian  Waste, 

For  He,  the  Castaway  of  stormy  floods, 

May  roam  through  cities,  or  in  savage  woods."  790 

Thus  did  the  Queen  administer  relief 
For  their  dejected  hearts ;  and  to  the  Chief, 
While  both  were  burning  with  desire  to  break 
From  out  the  darksome  cloud,  Achates  spake. 
"Son  of  a  Goddess,  what  resolves  ensue  795 

From  this  deliverance  whose  effects  we  view  ? 
All  things  are  safe — thy  Fleet  and  Friends  restored \ 
Save  one,  whom  in  our  sight  the  Sea  devour 'd ;         > 
All  else  respondent  to  thy  Mother's  word."  J 

He  spake ;  the  circumambient  cloud  anon  800 

Melts  and  dissolves,  the  murky  veil  is  gone ; 
And  left  tineas,  as  it  pass'd  away, 

With  godlike  mien  and  shoulders,  standing  in  full  day. 
For  that  same  Parent  of  celestial  race 

Had  shed  upon  his  hair  surpassing  grace ;  805 

And,  breathing  o'er  her  Son  the  purple  light   \ 
Of  youth,  had  glorified  his  eyes,  made  bright,  > 
Like  those  of  Heaven,  with  joyance  infinite.    J 
So  stood  he  forth,  an  unexpected  Guest, 
And,  while  all  wonder 'd,  thus  the  Queen  addressed.  810 

"He  whom  ye  seek  am  I,  ^Eneas — flung 
By  storms  the  Lybian  solitudes  among. 
O  Sole,  who  for  the  unutterable  state 
Of  Troy  art  humanly  compassionate ; 

Who  not  alone  a  shelter  dost  afford  815 

To  the  thin  relics  of  the  Grecian  sword, 
Perpetually  exhausted  by  pursuit 
Of  dire  mischance,  of  all  things  destitute, 
But  in  thy  purposes  with  them  hast  shar'd 

City  and  home ; — not  we,  who  thus  have  far'd,  820 

Not  we,  not  all  the  Dardan  Race  that  live, 
Scatter'd  through  Earth,  sufficient  thanks  can  give. 
The  Gods  (if  they  the  Pious  watch  with  love, 
If  Justice  dwell  about  us,  or  above) 

And  a  mind  conscious  to  itself  of  right,  825 

Shall,  in  fit  measure  thy  deserts  requite! 
What  happy  Age  gave  being  to  such  worth  ? 
What  blessed  Parents,  Dido !  brought  thee  forth  ? 

APPENDIX   A  305 

While  down  their  channels  Rivers  seaward  flow, 

While  shadowy  Groves  sweep  round  the  mountain's  brow,          830 

While  ether  feeds  the  stars,  where'er  be  cast  ^ 

My  lot,  whatever  Land  by  me  be  traced,  > 

Thy  name,  thy  honour,  and  thy  praise,  shall  last."] 

He  spake ;  and  turning  tow'rds  the  Trojan  Band, 

Salutes  Ilioneus  with  the  better  hand,  835 

And  grasps  Serestus  with  the  left — then  gave 

Like  greeting  to  the  rest,  to  Gyas  brave 

And  brave  Cloanthes. 

Inwardly  amaz'd,  \ 

Sidonian  Dido  on  the  Chief  had  gaz'd  > 

When  first  he  met  her  view ;— his  words  like  wonder  rais'd.j      840 
"What  Force",  said  She,  "pursues  thee — hath  impell'd 
To  these  wild  shores  ?    In  Thee  have  I  beheld 
That  Trojan  whom  bright  Venus,  on  the  shore 
Of  Phrygian  Simois,  to  Anchisos  bore  ? 

And  well  do  I  recall  to  mind  the  day  845 

When  to  our  Sidon  Teucer  found  his  way, 
An  Outcast  from  his  native  Borders  driven, 
With  hope  to  win  new  Realms  by  aid  from  Belus  given, 
Belus,  my  Father,  then  the  conquering  Lord 

Of  Cyprus  newly-ravaged  by  his  sword.  850 

Thenceforth  I  knew  the  fate  of  Troy  that  rings 
Earth  round, — thy  Name,  and  the  Pelasgian  kings. 
Teucer  himself,  with  liberal  tongue,  would  raise 
His  Adversaries  to  just  heights  of  praise, 

And  vaunt  a  Trojan  lineage  with  fair  proof;  855 

Then  welcome,  noble  Strangers,  to  our  Roof! 
— Me,  too,  like  Fortune,  after  devious  strife 
Stay'd  in  this  Land,  to  breathe  a  calmer  life  ; 
From  no  light  ills  which  on  myself  have  press'd, 
Pitying  I  learn  to  succour  the  distress'd."  860 

These  words  pronounced,  and  mindful  to  ordain        \ 
Fit  sacrifice,  she  issues  from  the  Fane,  J 

And  tow'rds  the  Palace  leads  J&neas  and  his  Train.; 
Nor  less  regardful  of  his  distant  Friends, 

To  the  sea  coast  she  hospitably  sends  865 

Twice  ten  selected  steers,  a  hundred  lambs 
Swept  from  the  plenteous  herbage  with  their  dams ; 
A  hundred  bristly  ridges  of  huge  swine, 
And  what  the  God  bestows  in  sparkling  wine. 

But  the  interior  Palace  doth  display  870 

Its  whole  magnificence  in  set  array ; 
And  in  the  centre  of  a  spacious  Hall 
Are  preparations  for  high  festival ; 
917.17  IV  X 

306  APPENDIX   A 

There,  gorgeous  vestments — skilfully  enwrought 

With  Eastern  purple ;  and  huge  tables — fraught  875 

With  massive  argentry ;  there,  carv'd  in  gold, 

Through  long,  long  series,  the  atchievements  bold 

Of  Forefathers,  each  imaged  in  his  place, 

From  the  beginning  of  the  ancient  Race. 

^Eneas,  whose  parental  thoughts  obey  880 

Their  natural  impulse,  brooking  no  delay, 
Despatched  the  prompt  Achates,  to  report 
The  new  events,  and  lead  Ascanius  to  the  Court. 
Ascanius,  for  on  him  the  Father's  mind 

Now  rests,  as  if  to  that  sole  care  eonfin'd ;  885 

And  bids  him  bring,  attendant  on  the  Boy, 
The  richest  Presents,  snatch'd  from  burning  Troy ; 
A  Robe  of  tissue  stiff  with  shapes  exprest 
In  threads  of  gleaming  gold ;  an  upper  Vest 

Round  which  acanthus  twines  its  yellow  flowers ;  890 

By  Argive  Helen  worn  in  festal  hours ; 
Her  Mother  Leda's  wonderous  gift — and  brought 
To  Ilium  from  Mycenae  when  she  sought 
Those  unpermitted  nuptials ; — thickly  set 

With  golden  gems,  a  twofold  coronet;  895 

And  Sceptre  which  Ilione  of  yore,  \ 

Eldest  of  Priam's  royal  Daughters  wore,  > 

And  orient  Pearls,  which  on  her  neck  she  bore.  J 
This  to  perform,  Achates  speeds  his  way 
To  the  Ships  anchor'd  in  that  peaceful  Bay.  900 

But  Cytherea,  studious  to  invent 
Arts  yet  untried,  upon  new  counsels  bent, 
Resolves  that  Cupid,  changed  in  form  and  face 
To  young  Ascanius,  should  assume  his  place ; 

Present  the  maddening  gifts,  and  kindle  heat  905 

Of  passion  at  tne  bosom's  inmost  seat. 
She  dreads  the  treacherous  House,  the  double  tongue ; 
She  burns,  she  frets — by  Juno's  rancour  stung; 
The  calm  of  night  is  powerless  to  remove 
These  cares,  and  thus  she  speaks  to  winged  Love:  910 

"O  Son,  my  strength,  my  power!  who  dost  despise 
(What,  save  thyself,  none  dares  through  earth  and  skies) 
The  giant -quelling  bolts  of  Jove,  I  flee, 
O  Son,  a  suppliant  to  thy  Deity ! 

What  perils  meet  ^Eneas  in  his  course,  915 

How  Juno's  hate  with  unrelenting  force 

907  the  double]  and  Punic  MS. 

908  By  Juno's  rancour  is  her  quiet  stung  MS. 


Pursues  thy  Brother — this  to  thee  is  known ; 

And  oft-times  hast  thou  made  my  griefs  thine  own. 

Him  now  the  generous  Dido  by  soft  chains 

Of  bland  entreaty  at  her  court  detains ;  920 

Junonian  hospitalities  prepare 

Such  apt  occasion  that  I  dread  a  snare. 

Hence,  ere  some  hostile  God  can  intervene, 

Would  I,  by  previous  wiles,  inflame  the  Queen 

With  passion  for  ^Eneas,  such  strong  love  925 

That  at  my  beck,  mine  only,  she  shall  move. 

Hear,  and  assist ; — the  Father's  mandate  calls 

His  young  Ascanius  to  the  Tyrian  Walls ; 

He  comes,  my  dear  delight, — and  costliest  things 

Preserv'd  from  fire  and  flood  for  presents  brings.  930 

Him  will  I  take,  and  in  close  covert  keep,  \ 

'Mid  Groves  Idalian,  lull'd  to  gentle  sleep,  > 

Or  on  Cythera's  far -sequestered  Steep,        J 

That  he  may  neither  know  what  hope  is  mine, 

Nor  by  his  presence  traverse  the  design.  935 

Do  Thou,  but  for  a  single  night's  brief  space, 

Dissemble ;  be  that  Boy  in  form  and  face : 

And  when  onraptur'd  Dido  shall  receive 

Thee  to  her  arms,  and  kisses  interweave 

With  many  a  fond  embrace,  while  joy  runs  high,  940 

And  goblets  crown  the  proud  festivity, 

Instil  thy  subtle  poison,  and  inspire, 

At  every  touch,  an  unsuspected  fire." 

Love,  at  the  word,  before  his  Mother's  sight 

Puts  off  his  wings,  and  walks,  with  proud  delight,  945 

Like  young  lulus ;  but  the  gentlest  dews 
Of  slumber  Venus  sheds,  to  circumfuse 
The  true  Ascanius  steep 'd  in  placid  rest ; 
Then  wafts  him,  cherish 'd  on  her  careful  breast, 
Through  upper  air  to  an  Idalian  glade,  \  950 

Where  he  on  soft  amaracus  is  laid,  > 

With  breathing  flowers  embraced,  and  fragrant  shade,  j 
But  Cupid,  following  cheerily  his  Guide 
Achates,  with  the  Gifts  to  Carthage  hied ; 

And,  as  the  hall  he  entered,  there,  between  ^  955 

The  sharers  of  her  golden  couch,  was  seen    } 
Reclin'd  in  festal  pomp  the  Tyrian  queen.   J 

919-20  .  .  .  Phoenician  Dido  in  soft  chains 

Of  a  seductive  blandishment  detains  MS. 
955-7     He  reach'd  the  Hall  where  now  the  Queen  repos'd 

Amid  a  golden  couch,  with  awnings  half  enclos'd  MS. 


The  Trojans  too  (JSneas  at  their  head),       \ 

On  couches  lie,  with  purple  overspread :        > 

Meantime  in  canisters  is  heap'd  the  bread,  J  960 

Pellucid  water  for  the  hands  is  borne, 

And  napkins  of  smooth  texture,  finely  shorn. 

Within  are  fifty  Handmaids,  who  prepare, 

As  they  in  order  stand,  the  dainty  fare ; 

And  fume  the  household  Deities  with  store  965 

Of  odorous  incense ;  while  a  hundred  more 

Match'd  with  an  equal  number  of  like  age, 

But  each  of  manly  sex,  a  docile  Page, 

Marshal  the  banquet,  giving  with  due  grace 

To  cup  or  viand  its  appointed  place.  9?o 

The  Tyrians  rushing  in,  an  eager  Band, 

Their  painted  couches  seek,  obedient  to  command. 

They  look  with  wonder  on  the  Gifts — they  gaze 

Upon  lulus,  dazzled  with  the  rays 

That  from  his  ardent  countenance  are  flung,  975 

And  charm 'd  to  hear  his  simulating  tongue ; 

Nor  pass  unprais'd  the  robe  and  veil  divine, 

Round  which  the  yellow  flowers  and  wandering  foliage  twine. 

But  chiefly  Dido,  to  the  coming  ill 

Devoted,  strives  in  vain  her  vast  desires  to  fill ;  980 

She  views  the  Gifts ;  upon  the  child  then  turns 
Insatiable  looks,  and  gazing  burns. 
To  ease  a  Father's  cheated  love  he  hung 
Upon  JBneas,  and  around  him  clung ; 

Then  seeks  the  Queen ;  with  her  his  arts  he  tries ;  985 

She  fastens  on  the  boy  enamour'd  eyes, 
Clasps  in  her  arms,  nor  weens  (O  lot  unblest!) 
How  great  a  God,  incumbent  o'er  her  breast, 
Would  fill  it  with  his  spirit.   He,  to  please 

His  Acidalian  mother,  by  degrees  990 

Blots  out  Sichaeus,  studious  to  remove 
The  dead,  by  influx  of  a  living  love, 
By  stealthy  entrance  of  a  perilous  guest, 
Troubling  a  heart  that  had  been  long  at  rest. 

981  child]  Boy  MS.  982  looks]  eyes  MS. 

985-9  Then  sought  the  Queen,  who  fix'd  on  him  the  whole 

That  she  possess'd  of  look,  mind,  life,  and  soul ; 

And  sometimes  doth  unhappy  Dido  plant 

The  Fondling  in  her  bosom,  ignorant 

How  great  a  God  deceives  her.  MS. 
991       Would  sap  Sichseus,  studious  to  remove  MS. 
993-4  Through  a  subsided  spirit  dispossessed 

Of  amorous  passion,  through  a  torpid  breast  MS. 


Now  when  the  viands  were  withdrawn,  and  ceas'd  995 

The  first  division  of  the  splendid  Feast, 
While  round  a  vacant  board  the  Chiefs  recline, 
Huge  goblets  are  brought  forth ;  they  crown  the  wine ; 
Voices  of  gladness  roll  the  walls  around ; 

Those  gladsome  voices  from  the  courts  rebound;  1000 

From  gilded  rafters  many  a  blazing  light 
Depends,  and  torches  overcome  the  night. 
The  minutes  fly — till,  at  the  Queen's  commands, 
A  bowl  of  state  is  offered  to  her  hands  : 

Then  She,  as  Belus  wont,  and  all  the  Line  1005 

From  Belus,  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  wine ; 
Silence  ensued.    "O  Jupiter,  whose  care 
Is  hospitable  Dealing,  grant  my  prayer ! 
Productive  day  be  this  of  lasting  joy 

To  Tyrians,  and  these  Exiles  driven  from  Troy;  1010 

A  day  to  future  generations  dear!  \ 

Let  Bacchus,  donor  of  soul -quick 'ning  cheer,  > 
Be  present ;  kindly  Juno,  be  thou  near !  J 

And,  Tyrians,  may  your  choicest  favours  wait 
Upon  this  hour,  the  bond  to  celebrate!"  1015 

She  spake  and  shed  an  Offering  on  the  board ; 
Then  sipp'd  the  bowl  whence  she  the  wine  had  pour'd 
And  gave  to  Bitias,  urging  the  prompt  lord ; 
He  rais'd  the  bowl,  and  took  a  long  deep  draught ; 
Then  every  Chief  in  turn  the  beverage  quaff 'd.  1020 

Graced  with  redundant  hair,  lopas  sings        \ 
The  lore  of  Atlas,  to  resounding  strings,  J 

The  labours  of  the  Sun,  the  lunar  wanderings ;  J 
Whence  human  kind,  and  brute ;  what  natural  powers 
Engender  lightning,  whence  are  falling  showers.  1025 

He  chaunts  Arcturus, — that  fraternal  twain 
The  glittering  Bears, — the  Pleiads  fraught  with  rain ; 
— Why  suns  in  winter,  shunning  Heaven's  steep  heights 
Post  seaward, — what  impedes  the  tardy  nights. 
The  learned  song  from  Tyrian  hearers  draws  1030 

Loud  shouts, — the  Trojans  echo  the  applause. 
— But,  lengthening  out  the  night  with  converse  new, 
Large  draughts  of  love  unhappy  Dido  drew ; 

1003  as  the  Queen  commands  MS. 

1018  .  .  .  bidding  him  take  heart; 

He  rais'd — and  not  unequal  to  the  part, 

Drank  deep  self-drench'd  from  out  the  brimming  gold 

Thereafter  a  like  course  the  encircling  Nobles  hold.  MS. 

1026  that  fraternal]  and  that  social  MS.          1027  fraught]  charged  MS. 


Of  Priam  ask'd,  of  Hector, — o'er  and  o'er — 

What  arms  the  son  of  bright  Aurora  wore ; —  1035 

What  steeds  the  car  of  Diomed  could  boast ; 

Among  the  Leaders  of  the  Grecian  host 

How  looked  Achilles — their  dread  Paramount — 

"But  nay — the  fatal  wiles,  O  guest,  recount, 

Retrace  the  Grecian  cunning  from  its  source,  1040 

Your  own  grief  and  your  Friends' — your  wandering  course ; 

For  now,  till  this  seventh  summer  have  ye  ranged 

The  sea,  or  trod  the  earth,  to  peace  estranged." 


ALL  breathed  in  silence,  and  intensely  gaz'd, 
When  from  the  lofty  couch  his  voice  ^Eneas  rais'd, 
And  thus  began:  "The  task  which  you  impose 

0  Queen,  revives  unutterable  woes ; 

How  by  the  Grecians  Troy  was  overturned,  5 

And  her  power  fell — to  be  for  ever  mourn'd ; 
Calamities  which  with  a  pitying  heart 

1  saw,  of  which  I  form'd  no  common  part. 
Oh !  'twas  a  miserable  end !  What  One 

Of  all  our  Foes,  Dolopian,  Myrmidon,  10 

Or  Soldier  bred  in  stern  Ulysses'  train 

Such  things  could  utter,  and  from  tears  refrain  ? 

And  hastens  now  from  Heaven  the  dewy  night, 

And  the  declining  stars  to  sleep  invite. 

But  since  such  strong  desire  prevails  to  know  15 

Our  wretched  fate,  and  Troy's  last  overthrow 

I  will  attempt  the  theme  though  in  my  breast 

Memory  recoils  and  shudders  at  the  test. 

The  Grecian  Chiefs,  exhausted  of  their  strength 

By  war  protracted  to  such  irksome  length,  20 

And,  from  the  siege  repuls'd,  new  schemes  devise ; 
A  wooden  horse  they  build  of  mountain  size. 
Assisted  by  Minerva's  art  divine, 
They  frame  the  work,  and  sheathe  its  ribs  with  pine, 
An  offering  to  the  Gods — that  they  may  gain  25 

Their  home  in  safety ;  this  they  boldly  feign, 

1036-9  What  coursers  those  of  Diomed;  how  great, 

Achilles — but  O  Guest !  the  whole  relate ;   MS. 
1041     griefs  MS. 
17-18  I  will  begin  with  spirit  resolute 

To  stifle  pangs  which  well  might  keep  me  mute  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  311 

And  spread  the  Tale  abroad ; — meanwhile  they  hide 

Selected  Warriors  in  its  gloomy  side ; 

Throng  the  huge  concave  to  its  utmost  den, 

And  fill  that  mighty  Womb  with  armed  Men.  30 

In  sight  of  Troy,  an  Island  lies,  by  Fame 
Amply  distinguished,  Tenedos  its  name ; 
Potent  and  rich  while  Priam's  sway  endured, 
Now  a  bare  hold  for  keels,  unsafely  moor'd. 

Here  did  the  Greeks,  when  for  their  native  land  35 

We  thought  them  sail'd,  lurk  on  the  desart  strand. 
From  her  long  grief  at  once  the  Realm  of  Troy 
Broke  loose ; — the  gates  are  opened,  and  with  joy 
We  seek  the  Dorian  Camp,  and  wander  o'er 

The  spots  forsaken,  the  abandoned  shore.  40 

Here,  the  Dolopian  ground  its  line  presents ; 
And  here  the  dread  Achilles  pitch 'd  his  tents ; 
There  lay  the  Ships  drawn  up  along  the  coast, 
And  here  we  oft  encounter'd  host  with  host. 

Meanwhile,  the  rest  an  eye  of  wonder  lift,  45 

Unwedded  Pallas !  on  the  fatal  Gift 
To  thee  devoted.   First  Thymcetes  calls 
For  its  free  ingress  through  disparted  walls 
To  lodge  within  the  Citadel — thus  He 

Treacherous,  or  such  the  course  of  destiny.  50 

Capys,  with  some  of  wiser  mind,  would  sweep 
The  insidious  Grecian  offering  to  the  Deep, 
Or  to  the  flames  subject  it ;  or  advise 
To  perforate  and  search  the  cavities ; 

Into  conflicting  judgments  break  and  split  55 

The  crowd,  as  random  thoughts  the  fancy  hit. 

Down  from  the  Citadel  a  numerous  throng 
Hastes  with  Laocoon ;  they  sweep  along, 
And  He,  the  foremost,  crying  from  afar, 

What  would  ye  ?  wretched  Maniacs,  as  ye  are !  60 

Think  ye  the  Foe  departed  ?  Or  that  e'er 
A  boon  from  Grecian  hands  can  prove  sincere  ? 
Thus  do  ye  read  Ulysses  ?  Foes  unseen 
Lurk  in  these  chambers ;  or  the  huge  Machine 

Against  the  ramparts  brought,  by  pouring  down  65 

Force  from  aloft,  will  seize  upon  the  Town. 

28  By  stealth,  choice  warriors  etc.   C.  W. 
33-4  Potent  and  rich,  in  time  of  Priam's  sway, 

A  faithless  Shiproad  now,  a  lonely  bay  C.  W. 
56-6  This  way  and  that  the  multitude  divide 

And  still  unsettled  veer  from  side  to  side.   0.  W. 

312  APPENDIX   A 

Let  not  a  fair  pretence  your  minds  enthrall ; 

For  me,  I  fear  the  Greeks  and  most  of  all 

When  they  are  offering  gifts."   With  mighty  force 

This  said,  he  hurl'd  a  spear  against  the  Horse ;  70 

It  smote  the  curved  ribs,  and  quivering  stood 

While  groans  made  answer  through  the  hollow  wood. 

We  too,  upon  this  impulse,  had  not  Fate  \ 

Been  adverse,  and  our  minds  infatuate,     > 

We  too,  had  rush'd  the  den  to  penetrate,;  75 

Streams  of  Argolic  blood  our  swords  had  stained, 

Troy,  thou  might'st  yet  have  stood,  and  Priam's  Towers  remained. 

But  lo !  an  unknown  youth  with  hand  to  hand 
Bound  fast  behind  him,  whom  a  boisterous  Band 
Of  Dardan  Swains  with  clamour  hurrying  80 

Force  to  the  shore  and  place  before  the  King. 
Such  his  device  when  he  those  chains  had  sought 
A  voluntary  captive,  fix'd  in  thought 
Either  the  City  to  betray,  or  meet 

Death,  the  sure  penalty  of  foil'd  deceit.  85 

The  curious  Trojans,  pouring  in,  deride 
And  taunt  the  Prisoner,  with  an  emulous  pride. 
Now  see  the  cunning  of  the  Greeks  exprest 
By  guilt  of  One,  true  image  of  the  rest ! 

For,  whilo  with  helpless  looks,  from  side  to  side  90 

Anxiously  cast,  the  Phrygian  throng  he  ey'd, 
"Alas!  what  Land,"  he  cries,  "can  now,  what  Sea, 
Can  offer  refuge  ?  what  resource  for  me  ? 
Who  mid  the  Greeks  no  breathing -place  can  find, 
And  whom  ye,  Trojans,  have  to  death  consigned!"  95 

Thus  were  we  wrought  upon ;  and  now,  with  sense 
Of  pity  touch'd,  that  check'd  all  violence, 
We  cheer  Jd  and  urged  him  boldly  to  declare 
His  origin,  what  tidings  he  may  bear, 

And  on  what  claims  he  ventures  to  confide ;  i  oo 

Then,  somewhat  eas'd  of  fear,  he  thus  replied : 

"O  King,  a  plain  confession  shall  ensue 
On  these  commands,  in  all  things  plain  and  true. 
And  first,  the  tongue  that  speaks  shall  not  deny 
My  origin ;  a  Greek  by  birth  am  I.  105 

67-70  Trojans!  mistrust  the  Horse:  whatever  it  be, 

Though  offering  gifts,  the  Greeks  are  Greeks  to  me." 

This  said,  Laocoon  hurPd  with  mighty  force 

A  ponderous  spear  against  the  monster  horse  C.  W. 

73-82  Pasted  over  the  MS.,  in  D.  W.'#  land,  corrected  by  C.  W. 

99  His  birth,  his  fortunes,  what  his  tidings  are  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  313 

Fortune  made  Sinon  wretched ; — to  do  more, 

And  make  him  false, — that  lies  not  in  her  power. 

In  converse,  haply,  ye  have  heard  the  name 

Of  Palamedes,  and  his  glorious  fame ; 

A  Chief  with  treason  falsely  charg'd,  and  whom  \  no 

The  Achaians  crush 'd  by  a  nefarious  doom,  > 

And  now  lament  when  cover 'd  with  the  tomb.     J 

His  kinsman  I ;  and  hither  by  his  side 

Me  my  poor  Father  sent,  when  first  these  fields  were  tried. 

While  yet  his  voice  the  Grecian  Chieftains  sway'd  115 

And  due  respect  was  to  his  counsel  paid, 

Ere  that  high  influence  was  with  life  cut  short, 

I  did  not  walk  ungraced  by  fair  report. 

Ulysses,  envy  rankling  in  his  breast, 

(And  these  are  things  which  thousands  can  attest)  120 

Thereafter  tura'd  his  subtlety  to  give 

That  fatal  injury,  and  he  ceas'd  to  live. 

I  dragg'd  my  days  in  sorrow  and  in  gloom, 

And  mourn 'd  my  guiltless  Friend,  indignant  at  his  doom ; 

This  inwardly ;  and  yet  not  always  mute,  125 

Rashly  I  vow'd  revenge — my  sure  pursuit, 

If  e'er  the  shores  of  Argos  I  again 

Should  see,  victorious  with  my  Countrymen. 

Sharp  hatred  did  these  open  threats  excite ; 

Hence  the  first  breathings  of  a  deadly  blight ;  130 

Hence,  to  appal  me,  accusations  came, 

Which  still  Ulysses  was  at  work  to  frame ; 

Hence  would  he  scatter  daily  'mid  the  crowd 

Loose  hints,  at  will  sustain 'd  or  disavow'd, 

Beyond  himself  for  instruments  he  look'd,  135 

And  in  this  search  for  means  no  respite  brook 'd 

Till  Calchas  his  accomplice — but  the  chain 

Of  foul  devices  why  untwist  in  vain  ? 

Why  should  I  linger  ?  if  ye  Trojans  place 

On  the  same  level  all  of  Argive  race,  140 

And  'tis  enough  to  know  that  I  am  one, 

Punish  me ;  would  Ulysses  might  look  on ! 

And  let  the  Atridae  hear,  rejoiced  with  what  is  done!" 

110  A  guiltless  Chief,  for  this  condemn'd  to  die, 

That  he  dissuaded  war — could  that  be  treachery  ?   C.  W. 
119-22  But  when  Ulysses  (thousands  can  attest 

This  truth)  with  envy  rankling  in  his  breast ; 
Had  compassed  what  he  blushed  not  to  contrive 
And  hapless  Palamedes  ceas'd  to  live.   C.  W. 
129  Nor  fail'd  these  threats  sharp  hatred  to  excite  C.  W. 
142-3  Punish  me  promptly!   Ithacus,  that  done, 

Would  be  rejoic'd,  the  brother  Kings  to  buy 

That  service,  would  esteem  no  price  too  high.   C.  W. 


This  stirr'd  us  more,  whose  judgments  were  asleep 
To  all  suspicion  of  a  crime  so  deep  145 

And  craft  so  fine.   Our  questions  we  renew'd ; 
And,  trembling,  thus  the  fiction  he  pursued. 

"Oft  did  the  Grecian  Host  the  means  prepare 
To  flee  from  Troy,  tired  with  so  long  a  war ; 

Would  they  had  fled!  but  winds  as  often  stopp'd  150 

Their  going,  and  the  twisted  sails  were  dropp'd; 
And  when  this  pine-ribb'd  Horse  of  monstrous  size         \ 
Stood  forth,  a  finish'd  Work,  before  their  eyes,  1 

Then  chiefly  peal'd  the  storm  through  blacken 'd  skies.  J 
So  that  the  Oracle  its  aid  might  lend  155 

To  quell  our  doubts,  Eurypylus  we  send, 
Who  brought  the  answer  of  the  voice  divine 
In  these  sad  words  given  from  the  Delphic  shrine. 
— 'Blood  flow'd,  a  Virgin  perish 'd  to  appease 

The  winds,  when  first  for  Troy  ye  pass'd  the  seas;  160 

O  Grecians !  for  return  across  the  Flood, 
Life  must  be  paid,  a  sacrifice  of  blood.' 
— With  this  response  an  universal  dread 
Among  the  shuddering  multitude  was  spread ; 

All  quak'd  to  think  at  whom  the  Fates  had  aim'd  165 

This  sentence,  who  the  Victim  Phoebus  claim'd. 
Then  doth  the  Ithacan  with  tumult  loud 
Bring  forth  the  Prophet  Calchas  to  the  crowd ; 
Asks  what  the  Gods  would  have ;  and  some,  meanwhile, 
Discern  what  end  the  Mover  of  the  guile  1 70 

Is  compassing ;  and  do  not  hide  from  me 
The  crime  which  they  in  mute  reserve  foresee. 
Ten  days  refus'd  he  still  with  guarded  breath 
To  designate  the  Man,  to  fix  the  death ; 

The  Ithacan  still  urgent  for  the  deed;  175 

At  last  the  unwilling  voice  announced  that  I  must  bleed. 
All  gave  assent,  each  happy  to  be  clear'd, 
By  one  Man's  fall,  of  what  himself  had  fear'd. 
Now  came  the  accursed  day ;  the  salted  cates 

Are  spread, — the  Altar  for  the  Victim  waits ;  180 

The  fillets  bind  my  temples — I  took  flight 
Bursting  my  chains,  I  own,  and  through  the  night 

156  To  fix  our  wavering  minds,  C.  W. 

165  to  think]  in  doubt  C.  W.        170-1  what  crime  ...  Is  bent  upon  C.  W. 
172  crime  which]  issue,  C.  W.  176  the  accomplice  Seer  C.  W. 

177-8  Assenting  all  with  joyful  transfer  laid 

What  each  himself  had  fear'd  upon  one  wretched  head.  C.  W. 


Lurk'd  among  oozy  swamps,  and  there  lay  hid 

Till  winds  might  cease  their  voyage  to  forbid. 

And  now  was  I  compell'd  at  once  to  part  185 

With  all  the  dear  old  longings  of  the  heart, 

Never  to  see  my  Country,  Children,  Sire, 

Whom  they,  perchance,  will  for  this  flight  require 

For  this  offence  of  mine  of  them  will  make 

An  expiation,  punish 'd  for  my  sake.  190 

But  Thee,  by  all  the  Powers  who  hold  their  seat 

In  Heaven,  and  know  the  truth,  do  I  entreat 

O  King !  and  by  whate'er  may  yet  remain 

Among  mankind  of  faith  without  a  stain, 

Have  pity  on  my  woes ;  commiserate  195 

A  mind  that  ne'er  deserved  this  wretched  fate.'* 

His  tears  prevail,  we  spare  the  Suppliant's  life 
Pitying  the  man  we  spare,  without  a  strife ; 
Even  Priam's  self,  He  first  of  all  commands 

To  loose  the  fetters  and  unbind  his  hands,  200 

Then  adds  these  friendly  words ; — "Whoe'er  thou  be 
Henceforth  forget  the  Grecians,  lost  to  thee ; 
We  claim  thee  now,  and  let  me  truly  hear 
Who  mov'd  them  first  this  monstrous  Horse  to  rear  ? 
And  why  ?  Was  some  religious  vow  the  aim  ?  205 

Or  for  what  use  in  war  the  Engine  might  they  frame  ? 
Straight  were  these  artful  words  in  answer  given 
While  he  uprais'd  his  hands,  now  free,  to  Heaven. 

*  'Eternal  Fires,  on  you  I  call;  O  Ye! 

And  your  inviolable  Deity!  210 

Altars,  and  ruthless  swords  from  which  I  fled ! 
Ye  fillets,  worn  round  my  devoted  head! 
Be  it  no  crime  if  Argive  sanctions  cease 
To  awe  me, — none  to  hate  the  men  of  Greece ! 

The  law  of  Country  forfeiting  its  hold,  215 

Mine  be  the  voice  their  secrets  to  unfold ! 
And  ye,  O  Trojans !  keep  the  word  ye  gave ; 
Save  me,  if  truth  I  speak,  and  Ilium  save ! 

The  Grecian  Host  on  Pallas  still  relied ; 
Nor  hope  had  they  but  what  her  aid  supplied ;  220 

197-8  We  grant  to  tears,  thus  seconding  his  pray'r, 
His  life,  and  freely  pity  whom  we  spare   C.  W. 

204-6  Why,  and  by  whom  instructed  did  they  rear 
This  huge  unwieldy  fabric  ?  was  the  aim 
Religion,  or  for  war  some  engine  did  they  frame  ?   C.  W. 


But  all  things  droop 'd  since  that  ill -omen 'd  time 

In  which  Ulysses,  Author  of  the  crime, 

Was  leagued  with  impious  Diomed,  to  seize 

That  Image  pregnant  with  your  destinies ; 

Tore  the  Palladium  from  the  Holy  Fane,  225 

The  Guards  who  watch'd  the  Citadel  first  slain. 

And,  fearing  not  the  Goddess,  touch'd  the  Bands 

Wreathed  round  her  virgin  brow,  with  gory  hands. 

Hope  ebb'd,  strength  fail'd  the  Grecians  since  that  day, 

From  them  the  Goddess  turn'd  her  mind  away.  230 

This  by  no  doubtful  signs  Tritonia  shew'd, 

The  uplifted  eyes  with  flames  coruscant  glow'd, 

Soon  as  they  plac'd  her  Image  in  the  Camp ; 

And  trickPd  o'er  its  limbs  a  briny  damp ; 

And  from  the  ground,  the  Goddess  (strange  to  hear!)  235 

Leapt  thrice,  with  buckler  grasp 'd,  and  quivering  spear. 

— Then  Calchas  bade  to  stretch  the  homeward  sail, 

And  prophesied  that  Grecian  Arms  would  fail, 

Unless  we  for  new  omens  should  repair 

To  Argos,  thither  the  Palladium  bear ;  240 

And  thence  to  Phrygian  Shores  recross  the  Sea, 

Fraught  with  a  more  propitious  Deity. 

They  went ;  but  only  to  return  in  power 

With  favouring  Gods,  at  some  unlook'd-for  hour. 

— So  Calchas  read  those  signs ;  the  Horse  was  built  245 

To  soothe  Minerva,  and  atone  for  guilt. 

Compact  in  strength  you  see  the  Fabric  rise, 

A  pile  stupendous,  towering  to  the  skies ! 

This  was  ordain'd  by  Calchas,  with  intent 

That  the  vast  bulk  its  ingress  might  prevent,  250 

And  Hium  ne'er  within  her  Walls  enfold 

Another  Safeguard  reverenced  like  the  old. 

For  if,  unaw'd  by  Pallas,  ye  should  lift 

A  sacrilegious  hand  against  the  Gift, 

The  Phrygian  Realm  shall  perish  (May  the  Gods  255 

Turn  on  himself  the  mischief  he  forebodes ! ) 

But  if  your  Town  it  enter — by  your  aid 

Ascending — Asia,  then,  in  arms  array'd 

Shall  storm  the  walls  of  Pelops,  and  a  fate 

As  dire  on  our  posterity  await."  260 

Even  so  the  arts  of  perjur'd  Sinon  gain'd 
Belief  for  this,  and  all  that  he  had  feign'd ; 
Thus  were  they  won  by  wiles,  by  tears  compell'd 

226-6  They,  when  the  warders  of  the  fort  were  slain,  Tore  etc.  C.  W. 
230  Incens'd  the  Goddess  turn'd  her  face  away  C.  W. 


Whom  not  Tydides,  not  Achilles  quell'd ; 

Who  fronted  ten  years'  war  with  safe  disdain,  265 

'Gainst  whom  a  thousand  Ships  had  tried  their  strength  in  vain. 

To  speed  our  fate,  a  thing  did  now  appear 
Yet  more  momentous,  and  of  instant  fear. 
Laocoon,  Priest  by  lot  to  Neptune,  stood 

Where  to  his  hand  a  Bull  pour'd  forth  its  blood,  270 

Before  the  Altar,  in  high  offering  slain ; — 
But  lo !  two  Serpents,  o'er  the  tranquil  Main 
Incumbent,  roll  from  Tenedos,  and  seek 
Our  Coast  together  (shuddering  do  I  speak); 

Between  the  waves,  their  elevated  breasts,  275 

Upheav'd  in  circling  spires,  and  sanguine  crests, 
Tower  o'er  the  flood ;  the  parts  that  follow,  sweep 
In  folds  voluminous  and  vast,  the  Deep. 
The  agitated  brine,  with  noisy  roar 

Attends  their  coming,  till  they  touch  the  shore ;  280 

Sparkle  their  eyes  suffus'd  with  blood,  and  quick 
The  tongues  shot  forth  their  hissing  mouths  to  lick. 
Dispers'd  with  fear  we  fly ;  in  close  array  \ 

These  move,  and  tow'rds  Laocoon  point  their  way,  > 
But  first  assault  his  Sons,  their  youthful  prey.          J  285 

— A  several  Snake  in  tortuous  wreaths  engrasps 
Each  slender  frame ;  and  fanging  what  it  clasps 
Feeds  on  the  limbs ;  the  Father  rushes  on, 
Arms  in  his  hand,  for  rescue ;  but  anon 

Himself  they  seize ;  and,  coiling  round  his  waist  290 

Their  scaly  backs,  they  bind  him,  twice  embrac'd 
With  monstrous  spires,  as  with  a  double  zone ;  \ 

And,  twice  around  his  neck  in  tangles  thrown,  > 

High  o'er  the  Father's  head  each  Serpent  lifts  its  own.  J 
His  priestly  fillets  then  are  sprinkled  o'er  295 

With  sable  venom  and  distain'd  with  gore ; 
And  while  his  labouring  hands  the  knots  would  rend 
The  cries  he  utters  to  the  Heavens  ascend ; 
Loud  as  a  Bull — that,  wounded  by  the  axe 

Shook  off  the  uncertain  steel,  and  from  the  altar  breaks,  300 

To  fill  with  bellowing  voice  the  depths  of  air ! 
— But  tow'rds  the  Temple  slid  the  Hydra  Pair, 
Their  work  accomplished,  and  there  lie  conceal'd, 
Couched  at  Minerva's  feet,  beneath  her  orbed  Shield. 
Nor  was  there  One  who  trembled  not  with  fear,  305 

Or  deem'd  the  expiation  too  severe, 
295  Lo !  while  his  priestly  wreaths  are  C.  W. 
297-8  He  strives  with  ...  to  rend 

And  utters  cries  that .  .  .  C.  W. 


For  him  whose  lance  had  pierc'd  the  votive  Steed, 

Which  to  the  Temple  they  resolve  to  lead ; 

There  to  be  lodg'd  with  pomp  of  service  high 

And  supplication,  such  the  general  cry.  310 

Shattering  the  Walls,  a  spacious  breach  we  make, 
We  cleave  the  bulwarks — toil  which  all  partake, 
Some  to  the  feet  the  rolling  wheels  apply, 
Some  round  the  lofty  neck  the  cables  tye ; 

The  Engine,  pregnant  with  our  deadly  foes,  315 

Mounts  to  the  breach ;  and  ever,  as  it  goes, 
Boys,  mix'd  with  Maidens,  chaunt  a  holy  song  \ 

And  press  to  touch  the  cords,  a  happy  throng.  | 

The  Town  it  enters  thus,  and  threatening  moves  along.  J 

My  Country,  glorious  Ilium!  and  ye  Towers,  320 

Lov'd  habitation  of  celestial  Powers ! 
Four  times  it  halted  mid  the  gates, — a  din 
Of  armour  four  times  warn'd  us  from  within ; 
Yet  tow'rds  the  sacred  Dome  with  reckless  mind  \ 
We  still  press  on,  and  in  the  place  assign 'd  |  325 

Lodge  the  portentous  Gift,  through  frenzy  blind.  J 

Nor  fail'd  Cassandra  now  to  scatter  wide 
Words  that  of  instant  ruin  prophesied. 
— But  Phoebus  will'd  that  none  should  heed  her  voice, 
And  we,  we  miserable  men,  rejoice,  330 

And  hang  our  Temples  round  with  festal  boughs, 
Upon  that  day,  the  last  that  Fate  allows. 

Meanwhile  had  Heaven  revolv'd  with  rapid  flight, 
And  fast  from  Ocean  climbs  the  punctual  Night, 
With  boundless  shade  involving  earth  and  sky  335 

And  Myrmidonian  frauds ; — the  Trojans  lie 
Scatter'd  throughout  the  weary  Town,  and  keep 
Unbroken  quiet  in  the  embrace  of  sleep. 

This  was  the  time  when,  furnish'd  and  array'd, 

Nor  wanting  silent  moonlight's  friendly  aid,  340 

From  Tenedos  the  Grecian  Navy  came, 
Led  by  the  royal  Galley's  signal  flame, 
And  Sinon  now,  our  hostile  fates  his  guard, 
By  stealth  the  dungeon  of  the  Greeks  unbarr'd. 

Straight,  by  a  pendant  rope  adown  the  side  345 

Of  the  steep  Horse,  the  armed  Warriors  glide. 
The  Chiefs  Thersander,  Sthenelus  are  there, 
With  joy  deliver'd  to  the  open  air ; 

APPENDIX   A  319 

Ulysses,  Thoas,  Achamas  the  cord 

Lets  down  to  earth  and  Helen's  injur'd  Lord,  350 

— Pyrrhus,  who  from  Pelides  drew  his  birth, 

And  bold  Machaon,  first  to  issue  forth, 

Nor  him  forget  whose  skill  had  fram'd  the  Pile 

Epeus,  glorying  in  his  prosperous  wile. 

They  rush  upon  the  City  that  lay  still,  355 

Buried  in  sleep  and  wine ;  the  Warders  kill ; 

And  at  the  wide -spread  Gates  in  triumph  greet 

Expectant  Comrades  crowding  from  the  Fleet. 

It  was  the  earliest  hour  of  slumbrous  rest, 

Gift  of  the  Gods  to  Man  with  toil  opprest,  360 

When,  present  to  my  dream,  did  Hector  rise 
And  stood  before  me  with  fast -streaming  eyes; 
Such  as  he  was  when  horse  had  striven  with  horse, 
Whirling  along  the  plain  his  lifeless  Corse, 

The  thongs  that  bound  him  to  the  Chariot  thrust  365 

Through  his  swoln  feet,  and  black  with  gory  dust, — 
A  spectacle  how  pitiably  sad! 
How  chang'd  from  that  returning  Hector,  clad 
In  glorious  spoils,  Achilles'  own  attire! 

From  Hector  hurling  shipward  the  red  Phrygian  fire!  370 

— A  squalid  beard,  hair  clotted  thick  with  gore, 
And  that  same  throng  of  patriot  wounds  he  bore, 
In  front  of  Troy  receiv'd ;  and  now,  methought,       \ 
That  I  myself  was  to  a  passion  wrought  J 

Of  tears,  which  to  my  voice  this  greeting  brought.  )  375 

"O  Light  of  Dardan  Realms!  most  faithful  Stay 
To  Trojan  courage,  why  these  lingerings  of  delay  ? 
Where  hast  thou  tarried,  Hector  ?  From  what  coast 
Com'st  thou,  long  wish'd-for  ?  That  so  many  lost 
Thy  kinsmen  or  thy  friends, — such  travail  borne  380 

By  this  afflicted  City — we  outworn 
Behold  thee.   Why  this  undeserv'd  disgrace  ? 
Who  thus  defil'd  with  wounds  that  honoured  face  ?" 
He  nought  to  this — unwilling  to  detain 

369-61  It  was  the  earliest  hour  when  sweet  repose, 
Gift  of  the  Gods,  creeps  softly  on,  to  close 
The  eyes  of  weary  mortals.  Then  arose 
Hector,  or  to  my  dream  appear 'd  to  rise  C.  W. 
379  Com'st  thou,  long-look'd  for.   After  thousands  lost  C.  W. 
381-3  By  desolated  Troy,  how  tired  and  worn 

Are  we  who  thus  behold  thee !  how  forlorn ! 
These  gashes  whence  ?  this  uadeserv'd  disgrace  ? 
Who  thus  defiled  that  calm  majestic  face  ?   C.  W. 

320  APPENDIX   A 

One,  who  had  ask'd  vain  things,  with  answer  vain ;  385 

But,  groaning  deep,  "Flee,  Goddess -born,"  he  said, 

"Snatch  thyself  from  these  flames  around  thee  spread ; 

Our  Enemy  is  master  of  the  Walls ; 

Down  from  her  elevation  Ilium  falls. 

Enough  for  Priam;  the  long  strife  is  o'er,  390 

Nor  doth  our  Country  ask  one  effort  more. 

Could  Pergamus  have  been  defended — hence, 

Even  from  this  hand,  had  issued  her  defence ; 

Troy  her  Penates  doth  to  thee  commend, 

Her  sacred  stores, — let  these  thy  fates  attend !  395 

Sail  under  their  protection  for  the  Land 

Where  mighty  Realms  shall  grow  at  thy  command !" 

— No  more  was  utter'd,  but  his  hand  he  stretch 'd, 

And  from  the  inmost  Sanctuary  fetch'd 

The  consecrated  wreaths,  the  potency  400 

Of  Vesta,  and  the  fires  that  may  not  die. 

Meantime,  wild  tumult  through  the  streets  is  pour'd, 
And  though  apart,  and  mid  thick  trees  embower 'd, 
My  Father's  mansion  stood,  the  loud  alarms 

Came  pressing  thither,  and  the  clash  of  Arms.  405 

Sleep  fled ;  I  climb  the  roof  and  where  it  rears 
Its  loftiest  summit,  stand  with  quicken'd  ears. 
So,  when  a  fire  by  raging  south  winds  borne 
Lights  on  a  billowy  sea  of  ripen'd  corn, 

Or  rapid  torrent  sweeps  with  mountain  flood  410 

The  fields,  the  harvest  prostrates,  headlong  bears  the  wood ; 
High  on  a  rock,  the  unweeting  Shepherd,  bound, 
In  blank  amazement,  listens  to  the  sound. 
Then  was  apparent  to  whom  faith  was  due, 

And  Grecian  plots  lie  bare  to  open  view.  415 

Above  the  spacious  palace  where  abode 
Deiphobus,  the  flames  in  triumph  rode ; 
Ucalegon  burns  next ;  through  lurid  air 
Sigean  Friths  reflect  a  widening  glare. 

Clamor  and  clangor  to  the  heavens  arise,  420 

The  blast  of  trumpets  mix'd  with  vocal  cries ; 
Arms  do  I  snatch — weak  reason  scarcely  knows 
What  aid  they  promise,  but  my  spirit  glows ; 
I  burn  to  gather  Friends,  whose  firm  array 
On  to  the  Citadel  shall  force  its  way.  425 

395  stores]  rites  C.  W. 

396-7  Far  sailing,  seek  for  these  the  fated  land 

Where  mighty  walls  at  length  shall  rise  at  thy  command  C.  W. 
402  Now  wailings  wild  from  street  to  street  are  pour'd  C.  W. 


Precipitation  works  with  desperate  charms ; 
It  seems  a  lovely  thing  to  die  in  arms. 

Lo  Pantheus !  fugitive  from  Grecian  spears, 
Apollo's  Priest ; — his  vanquished  Gods  he  bears ; 
The  other  hand  his  little  Grandson  leads,  430 

While  from  the  Sovereign  Fort,  he  tow'rd  my  threshold  speeds. 
"Pantheus,  what  hope  ?   Which  Fortress  shall  we  try  ? 
Where  plant  resistance  ?"  He  in  prompt  reply 
Said,  deeply  mov'd, — "  'Tis  come — the  final  hour; 
The  inevitable  close  of  Dardan  power  435 

Hath  come: — we  have  been  Trojans,  Ilium  was, 
And  the  great  name  of  Troy ;  now  all  things  pass 
To  Argos ;  so  wills  angry  Jupiter : 
Within  the  burning  Town  the  Grecians  domineer. 
Forth  from  its  central  stand  the  enormous  Horse  440 

Pours  in  continual  stream  an  armed  Force ; 
Sinon,  insulting  victor,  aggravates 
The  flames ;  and  thousands  hurry  through  the  Gates, 
Throng'd,  as  might  seem,  with  press  of  all  the  Hosts 
That  e'er  Mycenae  sent  to  Phrygian  Coasts.  445 

Others  with  spears  in  serried  files  blockade 
The  passes ; — hangs,  with  quivering  point,  the  blade 
Unsheath'd  for  slaughter, — scarcely  to  the  foes 
A  blind  and  baffled  fight  the  Warders  can  oppose." 

Urg'd  by  these  words,  and  as  the  Gods  inspire,  450 

I  rush  into  the  battle  and  the  fire, 
Whore  sad  Erinnys,  where  the  shock  of  fight, 
The  roar,  the  tumult,  and  the  groans  invite ; 
Rypheus  is  with  me,  Epytus,  the  pride  \ 

Of  battles,  joins  his  aid,  and  to  my  side  >  455 

Flock  Dymas,  Hypanis,  the  moon  their  guide ;  J 
With  young  Coroebus,  who  had  lately  sought 
Our  walls,  by  passion  for  Cassandra  brought ; 
He  led  to  Priam  an  auxiliar  train,  \ 

His  Son  by  wedlock,  miserable  Man  >  460 

For  whom  a  raving  Spouse  had  prophesied  in  vain.  J 

When  these  I  saw  collected,  and  intent 
To  face  the  strife  with  deeds  of  hardiment, 
I  thus  began:  "O  Champions,  vainly  brave 
If,  like  myself,  to  dare  extremes  ye  crave,  465 

467-9  Nor  last  the  young  Coroebus,  he  who  fed 
A  senseless  passion,  whom  desire  to  wed 
Cassandra,  in  those  days  to  Troy  had  led, 
He  fought,  the  hopes  of  Priam  to  sustain  C.  W. 

917.17  J*  Y 

322  APPENDIX   A 

You  see  our  lost  condition, — not  a  God,  \ 

Of  all  the  Powers  by  whom  this  Empire  stood,  J 

But  hath  renounced  his  Altar — fled  from  his  abode.  J 

— Ye  would  uphold  a  City  wrapp'd  in  fire  ; 

Die  rather ; — let  us  rush,  in  battle  to  expire.  47o 

At  least  one  safety  shall  the  vanquish'd  have 

If  they  no  safety  seek  but  in  the  grave." 

— Thus  to  their  minds  was  fury  added, — then, 

Like  wolves  driven  forth  by  hunger  from  the  den, 

To  prowl  amid  blind  vapours,  whom  the  brood  475 

Expect,  their  jaws  all  parch'd  with  thirst  for  blood, 

Through  flying  darts,  through  pressure  of  the  Foe, 

To  death,  to  not  uncertain  death,  we  go. 

Right  through  the  Town  our  midway  course  we  bear, 

Aided  by  hovering  darkness,  strengthen'd  by  despair,  480 

Can  words  the  havoc  of  that  night  express  ? 

What  power  of  tears  may  equal  the  distress  ? 

An  ancient  City  sinks  to  disappear ; 

She  sinks  who  rul'd  for  ages, — Far  and  near 

The  Unresisting  through  the  streets,  the  abodes  485 

Of  Men  and  hallow'd  Temples  of  the  Gods, 

Are  fell'd  by  massacre  that  takes  no  heed ; 

Nor  are  the  Trojans  only  doom'd  to  bleed ; 

The  Vanquish'd  sometimes  to  their  hearts  recall 

Old  virtues,  and  the  conquering  Argives  fall.  490 

Sorrow  is  everywhere  and  fiery  skaith,  \ 

Fear,  Anguish  struggling  to  be  rid  of  breath,         J 

And  Death  still  crowding  on  the  shape  of  Death.  J 

Androgeus,  whom  a  numerous  Force  attends, 

Was  the  first  Greek  we  met ;  he  rashly  deems  us  Friends.  495 

"What  sloth,"  he  cries,  "retards  you  ?  Warriors  haste! 
Troy  blazes,  sack'd  by  others,  and  laid  waste ; 
And  ye  come  lagging  from  your  Ships  the  last!" 
Thus  he ;  and  straight  mistrusting  our  replies, 

He  felt  himself  begirt  with  enemies ;  500 

Voice  fail'd — step  faulter'd,  at  the  dire  mistake^ 
Like  one  who  through  a  deeply  tangl'd  brake  1 
Struggling,  hath  trod  upon  a  lurking  Snake,  J 

471—2  For  safety  hoping  not;  the  vanquish'd  have 

The  best  of  safety,  in  a  noble  grave.   C.  W. 

Could  but  the  vanquished  beat  out  of  their  mind 

All  hope  of  safety,  safety  they  might  find  MS.  101 
486-7  Multitudes,  passive  creatures,  through  streets,  roads, 

Houses  of  men,  and  thresholds  of  the  Gods 

By  ruthless  massacre  are  prostrated  C.  W. 

492-3  Fear   .  .  .  breath,    Are   everywhere:    about,   above,  beneath,   Is 
Death  etc.  C.W. 

APPENDIX   A  323 

Arid  shrunk  in  terror  from  the  unlook'd-for  Pest 

Lifting  his  blue-swoln  neck  and  wrathful  crest.  505 

Even  so  Androgeus,  smit  with  sudden  dread, 

Recoils  from  what  he  saw,  and  would  have  fled, 

Forward  we  rush,  with  arms  the  Troop  surround, 

The  Men,  surpriz'd  and  ignorant  of  the  ground, 

Subdued  by  fear,  become  an  easy  prey ;  510 

So  are  we  favor'd  in  our  first  essay. 

With  exultation  here  Coroebus  cries, 
"Behold,  O  Friends,  how  bright  our  destinies! 
Advance ; — the  road  which  they  point  out  is  plain ; 
Shields  let  us  change,  and  bear  the  insignia  of  the  Slain,  515 

Grecians  in  semblance ;  wiles  are  lawful — who 
To  simple  valour  would  restrict  a  foe  ? 
Themselves  shall  give  us  Arms."   When  this  was  said 
The  Leader's  helmet  nods  upon  his  head, 

The  emblazon'd  buckler  on  his  arm  is  tied,  520 

He  fits  an  Argive  falchion  to  his  side. 
The  like  doth  Ripheus,  Dymas, — all  put  on, 
With  eager  haste,  the  spoils  which  they  had  won. 
Then  in  the  combat  mingling,  Heaven  averse, 

Amid  the  gloom  a  multitude  we  pierce,  525 

And  to  the  shades  dismiss  them.   Others  flee, 
Appall'd  by  this  imagined  treachery ; 
Some  to  the  Ships — some  in  the  Horse  would  hide.  \ 

Ah !  what  reap  they  but  sorrow  who  confide  J 

In  aught  to  which  the  Gods  their  sanction  have  denied  ?  J  530 

Behold  Cassandra,  Priam's  royal  Child, 
By  sacrilegeous  men,  with  hair  all  wild, 
Dragg'd  from  Minerva's  Temple !   Tow'rd  the  skies 
The  Virgin  lifts  in  vain  her  glowing  eyes, 

Her  eyes,  she  could  110  more,  for  Grecian  bands  535 

Had  rudely  manacled  her  tender  hands* 
The  intolerable  sight  to  madness  stung        \ 
Coroebus ;  and  his  desperate  self  he  flung     > 
For  speedy  death  the  ruthless  Foe  among!  j 

We  follow,  and  with  general  shock  assail  540 

The  hostile  Throng : — here  first  our  efforts  fail : 
While,  from  the  summit  of  the  lofty  Fane 
Darts,  by  the  People  flung,  descend  amain ; 
In  miserable  heaps  their  Friends  are  laid, 
By  shew  of  Grecian  Arms  and  Crests  betray'd.  545 

510  fear,  become]  terror,  fall  C.  W. 


Wroth  for  the  Virgin  rescu'd,  by  defeat 

Provok'd,  the  Grecians  from  all  quarters  meet. 

With  Ajax  combat  there  the  Brother  Kings ; 

And  the  Dolopian  Squadron  thither  brings 

Its  utmost  rage.   Thus  Winds  break  forth  and  fly  550 

To  conflict  from  all  regions  of  the  sky ; 

Notus  and  Zephyrus,  while  Eurus  feeds 

The  strife,  exulting  in  his  orient  steeds ; 

Woods  roar,  and  foaming  Nereus  stirs  the  waves 

Rouz'd  by  his  trident  from  their  lowest  caves.  555 

They  also  whomsoe'er  through  shades  of  night 

Our  stratagem  had  driven  to  scattered  flight 

Now  reappear — by  them  our  Shields  are  known ;  \ 

The  simulating  Javelins  they  disown,  > 

And  mark  our  utterance  of  discordant  tone.          J  560 

Numbers  On  numbers  bear  us  down ;  and  first 

Coroebus  falls ;  him  Peneleus  hath  pierc'd 

Before  Minerva's  Altar ;  next,  in  dust 

Sinks  Rhypeus,  one  above  all  Trojans  just, 

And  righteous  above  all ;  but  heavenly  Powers  565 

Ordain  by  lights  that  ill  agree  with  ours. 

Then  Dymas,  Hypanis  are  slain  by  Friends ; 

— Nor  thee  abundant  piety  defends, 

0  Pantheus !  falling  with  the  garland  wound, 

As  fits  Apollo's  Priest,  thy  brows  around.  570 

Ashes  of  Ilium !  and  ye  duteous  fires, 
Lit  for  my  Friends  upon  their  funeral  pyres ; 
Amid  your  fall  bear  witness  to  my  word  I 

1  shunn'd  no  hazards  of  the  Grecian  sword, 

No  turns  of  war ;  with  hand  unsparing  fought ;  575 

And  earn'd,  had  Fate  so  will'd,  the  death  I  sought, 

Thence  am  I  hurried  by  the  rolling  tide, 

With  Iphitus  and  Pelias  at  my  side ; 

One  bow'd  with  years ;  and  Pelias,  from  a  wound 

Given  by  Ulysses,  halts  along  the  ground.  580 

New  clamours  rise ;   The  Abode  of  Priam  calls, 

Besieged  by  thousands  swarming  round  the  walls ; 

Concourse  how  thick !  as  if,  throughout  the  space 

Of  the  whole  City,  war  in  other  place 

548-50  The  brother  Kings  and  Ajax  that  way  bend 

Their  efforts ;  the  Dolopian  squadron  spend 

Their  fury  there.   C.  W. 

563  Falls  bold  Coroebus  by  Peneleus  pierc'd  C.  W. 
566  Judge  by  a  light  that  ill  agrees  C.  W. 


Were  hush'd — no  death  elsewhere.   The  Assailants  wield  585 

Above  their  heads  shield,  shell -wise  lock'd  in  shield ; 

Climb  step  by  step  the  ladders,  near  the  side 

Of  the  strong  portal  daringly  applied ; 

The  weaker  hand  its  guardian  shield  presents ; 

The  right  is  stretch'd  to  grasp  the  battlements.  590 

The  Dardans  tug  at  roof  and  turrets  high,  \ 

Rend  fragments  off,  and  with  these  weapons  try  1 

Life  to  preserve  in  such  extremity,  J 

Roll  down  the  massy  rafters  deck'd  with  gold, 

Magnific  splendours  rais'd  -by  Kings  of  old ;  595 

Others  with  naked  weapons  stand  prepared 

In  thick  array,  the  doors  below  to  guard. 

A  bolder  hope  inspirits  me  to  lend 
My  utmost  aid  the  Palace  to  defend, 

And  strengthen  those  afflicted.   From  behind,  \  600 

A  gateway  open'd,  whence,  a  passage  blind        ) 
The  various  Mansions  of  the  Palace  join'd.        J 
— Unblest  Andromache,  while  Priam  reign'd 
Oft  by  this  way  the  royal  Palace  gain'd, 

A  lonely  Visitant ;  this  way  would  tread  605 

With  young  Astyanax,  to  his  Grandsire  led. 
Entering  the  gate,  I  reach'd  the  roof,  where  stand 
The  Trojans,  hurling  darts  with  ineffectual  hand. 
A  Tower  there  was ;  precipitous  the  site, 

And  the  Pile  rose  to  an  unrivall'd  height ;  610 

Frequented  Station,  whence,  in  circuit  wide 
Troy  might  be  seen,  the  Argive  Fleet  descried, 
And  all  the  Achaian  Camp.   This  sovereign  Tower 
With  irons  grappling  where  the  loftiest  floor 

Press'd  with  its  beams  the  wall  we  shake,  we  rend,  615 

And,  in  a  mass  of  thundering  ruin,  send 
To  crush  the  Greeks  beneath.   But  numbers  press 
To  new  assault  with  reckless  eagerness: 
Weapons  and  missiles  from  the  ruins  grow, 
And  what  their  hasty  hands  can  seize  they  throw !  620 

In  front  stands  Pyrrhus,  glorying  in  the  might  \ 
Of  his  own  weapons,  while  his  armour  bright  1 

Casts  from  the  portal  gleams  of  brazen  light,          J 
So  shines  a  Snake,  when  kindling,  he  hath  crept 
Forth  from  the  winter  bed  in  which  he  slept,  625 

Swoln  with  a  glut  of  poisonous  herbs, — but  now 

600  And  succour  there  the  vanquished.   C.  W. 

605  All  unattended  oft  this  way  would  tread  C.  W, 


Fresh  from  the  shedding  of  his  annual  slough, 

Glittering  in  youth,  warm  with  instinctive  fires,  \ 

He,  with  rais'd  breast,  involves  his  back  in  gyres,  > 

Darts  with  his  forked  tongue,  and  tow'rd  the  sun  aspires. )  630 

Join'd  with  redoubted  Periphas,  comes  on 

To  storm  the  Palace  fierce  Automedon, 

Who  drove  the  Achillean  Car; — the  Bands 

Of  Scyros  follow  hurling  fiery  brands. 

Pyrrhus  himself  hath  seiz'd  an  axe,  would  cleave  635 

The  ponderous  doors,  or  from  their  hinges  heave ; 

And  now,  reiterating  stroke  on  stroke 

Hath  hewn,  through  plates  of  brass  and  solid  oak, 

A  broad -mouth'd  entrance ; — to  their  inmost  seats 

The  long-drawn  courts  lie  open ;  the  retreats  640 

Of  Priam  and  ancestral  Kings  are  bar'd  \ 

To  instantaneous  view ;  and  Lo !  the  Guard      | 

Stands  at  the  threshold,  for  defence  prepared.  J 

But  tumult  spreads  through  all  the  space  within ; 
The  vaulted  roofs  repeat  the  mournful  din  645 

Of  female  Ululation,  a  strange  vent 
Of  agony,  that  strikes  the  starry  firmament ! 
The  Matrons  range  with  wildering  step  the  floors ; 
Embrace,  and  print  their  kisses  on,  the  doors. 

Pyrrhus,  with  all  his  father's  might,  dispels  650 

Barriers  and  bolts,  and  living  obstacles ; 
Force  shapes  her  own  clear  way ; — the  doors  are  thrown 
Off  from  their  hinges ;  gates  are  batter'd  down 
By  the  onrushing  Soldiery,  who  kill 

Whom  first  they  meet,  and  the  broad  area  fill.  655 

— Less  irresistibly,  o'er  dams  and  mounds,  \ 

Burst  by  its  rage,  a  foaming  River  bounds,  > 

Herds  sweeping  with  their  stalls  along  the  ravag'd  grounds.  J 
Pyrrhus  I  saw  with  slaughter  desperate ; 

The  two  Atridae  near  the  Palace  gate  660 

Did  I  behold ;  and  by  these  eyes  were  seen 
The  hundred  Daughters  with  the  Mother  Queen, 
And  hoary -headed  Priam,  where  he  stood 
Beside  the  Altar,  staining  with  his  blood 

Fires  which  himself  had  hallow'd.   Hope  had  he  665 

Erewhile,  none  equal  hope,  of  large  posterity. 
There,  fifty  bridal  chambers  might  be  told — 

635-6  ...  a  halberd,  cleaves  .  .  .  heaves  C.  W. 
652-4  the  doors  have  flown  .  .  .  overthrown 

By  shock  of  horned  engines  batter'd  down. 

In  rush  the  Grecian  soldiery ;  they  kill  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  327 

Superb  with  trophies  and  barbaric  gold, 

All,  in  their  pomp,  lie  level  with  the  ground, 

And  where  the  fire  is  not,  are  Grecian  Masters  found.  670 

Ask  ye  the  fate  of  Priam  ?   On  that  night 
When  captur'd  Ilium  blaz'd  before  his  sight, 
And  the  Foe,  bursting  through  the  Palace  gate 
Spread  through  the  privacies  of  royal  state, 

In  vain  to  tremulous  shoulders  he  restor'd  \  675 

Arms  which  had  long  forgot  their  ancient  Lord,  > 
And  girt  upon  his  side  a  useless  sword ;  J 

Then,  thus  accoutred,  forward  did  he  hie, 
As  if  to  meet  the  Enemy  and  die. 

— Amid  the  Courts,  an  Altar  stood  in  view  680 

Of  the  wide  heavens,  near  which  a  long-lived  Laurel  grew, 
And,  bending  over  this  great  Altar,  made 
For  its  Penates  an  embracing  shade. 
With  all  her  Daughters,  throng 'd  like  Doves  that  lie 
Cowering,  when  storms  have  driven  them  from  the  sky,  685 

Hecuba  shelters  in  that  sacred  place 
Where  they  the  Statues  of  the  Gods  embrace. 
But  when  she  saw  in  youthful  Arms  array'd 
Priam  himself;  "What  ominous  thought,"  she  said, 
"Hangs,  wretched  Spouse,  this  weight  on  limbs  decay 'd  ?  690 

And  whither  would'st  thou  hasten  ?   If  we  were 
More  helpless  still,  this  succour  we  might  spare. 
Not  such  Defenders  doth  the  time  demand ; 
Profitless  here  would  be  even  Hector's  hand. 

Retire ;  this  Altar  can  protect  us  all,  695 

Or  thou  wilt  not  survive  when  we  must  fall." 
This  to  herself:  and  tow  Yd  the  sacred  spot 
She  drew  the  aged  Man,  to  wait  their  common  lot. 

But  see  Polites,  one  of  Priam's  Sons, 

Charg'd  with  the  death  which  he  in  terror  shuns !  700 

The  wounded  Youth,  escap'd  from  Pyrrhus,  flies 
Through  showers  of  darts,  through  press  of  enemies, 
Where  the  long  Porticos  invite ;  the  space 
Of  widely -vacant  Courts  his  footsteps  trace. 

Him,  Pyrrhus,  following  near  and  still  more  near,  705 

Hath  caught  at  with  his  hand,  and  presses  with  his  spear ; 

669-70  Pillar  and  portal  to  the  dust  are  brought ; 

And  the  Greeks  lord  it,  where  the  fire  is  not.   C.  W. 
697-8  Then  to  herself  she  drew  the  aged  Sire 

And  to  the  laurel  shade  together  they  retire  C.  W. 

328  APPENDIX   A 

But  when  at  length  this  unremitting  flight 

Had  brought  him  full  before  his  Father's  sight, 

He  fell — and  scarcely  prostrate  on  the  ground, 

Pour'd  forth  his  life  from  many  a  streaming  wound.  710 

Here  Priam,  scorning  death  and  self -regard, 

His  voice  restrain'd  not,  nor  his  anger  spar'd ; 

But  "Shall  the  Gods,"  he  cries,  "if  Gods  there  be 

Who  note  such  acts,  and  care  for  piety, 

Requite  this  heinous  crime  with  measure  true,  715 

Nor  one  reward  withhold  that  is  thy  due ; 

Who  thus  a  Father's  presence  hast  defil'd, 

And  forc'd  upon  his  sight  the  murder  of  a  Child. 

Not  thus  Achilles'  self,  from  whom  a  tongue 

Vers'd  in  vainglorious  falsehood  boasts  thee  sprung,  720 

Dealt  with  an  enemy ;  my  prayer  he  heard ; 

A  Suppliant's  rights  in  Priam  he  rever'd, 

Gave  Hector  back  to  rest  within  the  tomb, 

And  me  remitted  to  my  royal  home." 

This  said,  the  aged  Man  a  javelin  cast ;  725 

With  weak  arm — faltering  to  the  shield  it  past ; 

The  tinkling  shield  the  harmless  point  repelPd, 

Which,  to  the  boss  it  hung  from,  barely  held. 

— Then  Pyrrhus,  "To  my  Sire,  Pelides,  bear  \ 

These  feats  of  mine,  ill  relish 'd  as  they  are,     >  730 

Tidings  of  which  I  make  thee  messenger !       J 

To  him  a  faithful  history  relate 

Of  Neoptolemus  degenerate. 

Now  die!"  So  saying,  towards  the  Altar,  through 

A  stream  of  filial  blood,  the  tottering  Sire  he  drew ;  735 

His  left  hand  lock'd  within  the  tangled  hair 

Rais'd,  with  the  right,  a  brandish'd  sword  in  air, 

Then  to  the  hilt  impell'd  it  through  his  side  ; 

Thus,  mid  a  blazing  City,  Priam  died. 

Troy  falling  round  liim,  thus  he  clos'd  his  fate,  740 

And  the  proud  Lord  of  many  an  Asian  State ! 

Upon  the  shore  lies  stretch'd  his  mangled  frame, 

Head  from  the  shoulders  torn,  a  Body  without  name. 

Then  first  it  was,  that  Horror  girt  me  round ; 

ChilFd  my  frail  heart,  and  all  my  senses  bound ;  745 

The  image  of  my  Father  cross'd  my  mind ; 

714-15  acts  .  .  .  heinous  crime]  crimes  .  .  .  deed  of  thine  C.  W. 
727-8  Straight  by  the  brass  impell'd  that  feebly  rung 

Down  from  the  boss  the  harmless  weapon  hung  C.  W. 
742-3  The  abandon'd  corse  lies  stretch'd  upon  the  shore 

Head  from  the  shoulders  torn,  its  very  name  no  more.  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  329 

Perchance  in  fate  with  slaughtered  Priam  join'd ; 

Equal  in  age,  thus  may  He  breathe  out  life, 

Creusa  also,  my  deserted  Wife! 

The  Child  lulus  left  without  defence,  75° 

And  the  whole  House  laid  bare  to  violence ! 

Backward  I  look'd,  and  cast  my  eyes  before ; 

My  Friends  had  fail'd,  and  courage  was  no  more ; 

All,  wearied  out,  had  follow'd  desperate  aims, 

Self-dash'd  to  earth,  or  stifled  in  the  flames.  755 

Thus  was  I  left  alone ;  such  light  my  guide 
As  the  conflagrant  walls  and  roofs  supplied ; 
When  my  far-wandering  eyesight  chanc'd  to  meet 
Helen  sequester'd  on  a  lonely  seat 

Amid  the  Porch  of  Vesta ;  She,  through  dread  760 

Of  Trojan  vengeance  amply  merited, 
Of  Grecian  punishment,  and  what  the  ire 
Of  a  deserted  Husband  might  require, 
Thither  had  flown — there  sate,  the  common  bane 
Of  Troy  and  of  her  Country — to  obtain  765 

Protection  from  the  Altar,  or  to  try 
What  hope  might  spring  from  trembling  secresy. 
Methought  my  falling  Country  cried  aloud, 
And  the  revenge  it  seem'd  to  ask,  I  vow'd ; 

"What!  shall  she  visit  Sparta  once  again  ?  .  770 

In  triumph  enter  with  a  loyal  Train  ? 
Consort,  and  Home,  and  Sires  and  Children  view 
By  Trojan  Females  serv'd,  a  Phrygian  retinue  ? 
For  this  was  Priam  slain  ?  Troy  burnt  ?  the  shore 
Of  Dardan  Seas  so  often  drench'd  in  gore  ?  775 

Not  so ;  for  though  such  victory  can  claim 
In  its  own  nature  no  renown  of  fame, 
The  punishment  that  ends  the  guilty  days 
Even  of  a  Woman,  shall  find  grateful  praise ; 

My  soul,  at  least,  shall  of  her  weight  be  eas'd,  780 

The  ashes  of  my  Countrymen  appeas'd." 

Such  words  broke  forth ;  and  in  my  own  despite  \ 
Onward  I  bore,  when  through  the  dreary  night  } 
Appear'd  my  gracious  Mother,  vested  in  pure  light ;  J 
Never  till  now  before  me  did  she  shine  785 

So  much  herself,  so  thoroughly  divine ; 
Goddess  reveal'd  in  all  her  beauty,  love,  \ 
And  majesty,  as  she  is  wont  to  move,       1 
A  Shape  familiar  to  the  Courts  of  Jove !  J 

763  deserted]  forsaken  C.  W.  786  so  thoroughly]  of  aspect  so   C.  W. 

330  APPENDIX   A 

The  hand  she  seiz'd  her  touch  sufficed  to  stay,  790 

Then  through  her  roseate  mouth  these  words  found  easy  way. 

"O  Son!  what  pain  excites  a  wrath  so  blind  ? 
Or  could  all  thought  of  me  desert  thy  mind  ? 
Where  now  is  left  thy  Parent  worn  with  age  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  rather  in  that  search  engage  ?  795 

Learn  with  thine  eyes  if  yet  Creusa  live, 
And  if  the  Boy  Ascanius  still  survive. 
Them  do  the  Greeks  environ: — that  they  spare,  \ 
That  swords  so  long  abstain,  and  flames  forbear,  J 
Is  through  the  intervention  of  my  care.  J  800 

Not  Spartan  Helen's  beauty,  so  abhorr'd 
By  thee,  not  Paris,  her  upbraided  Lord — 
The  hostile  Gods  have  laid  this  grandeur  low, 
Troy  from  the  Gods  receives  her  overthrow. 

Look !  for  the  impediment  of  misty  shade  805 

With  which  thy  mortal  sight  is  overlaid 
I  will  disperse ;  nor  thou  refuse  to  hear 
Parental  mandates,  nor  resist  through  fear ! 
There,  where  thou  seest  block  rolling  upon  block, 
Mass  rent  from  mass,  and  dust  condens'd  with  smoke  810 

In  billowy  intermixture,  Neptune  smites 
The  walls,  with  labouring  Trident  disunites 
From  their  foundation — tearing  up,  as  suits 
His  anger,  Ilium  from  her  deepest  roots. 

Fiercest  of  all,  before  the  Scaean  Gate,  815 

Arm'd  Juno  stands,  beckoning  to  animate 
The  Bands  she  summons  from  the  Argive  Fleet, 
Tritonian  Pallas  holds  her  chosen  seat 
High  on  the  Citadel, — look  back !  see  there 

Her  ^Egis  beaming  forth  a  stormy  glare !  820 

The  very  Father,  tjove  himself,  supplies 
Strength  to  the  Greeks,  sends  heaven-born  enemies 
Against  the  Dardan  Arms.   My  Son,  take  flight, 
And  close  the  struggle  of  this  dismal  night ! 

I  will  not  quit  thy  steps  whate'er  betide,  \  825 

But  to  thy  Father's  House  will  safely  guide."      J 
She  ceas'd,  and  did  in  shades  her  presence  hide,  j 

791  through  .  .  .  mouth]  from  ,  .  .  lips  C.  W. 
811-14  Tower  and  wall 

Upheav'd  by  Neptune's  mighty  trident  fall, 

To  earth ;  his  wrath  their  deep  foundation  bares 

And  the  strong  City  by  the  roots  up  tears.  MS. 
827  did  in  gathering  shades  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  331 

Dire  Faces  still  are  seen  and  Deities 

Adverse  to  Troy  appear,  her  mighty  Enemies. 

Now  was  all  Ilium,  far  as  sight  could  trace,  \  830 

Settling  and  sinking  in  the  Fire's  embrace,       } 
Neptunian  Troy  subverted  from  her  base.         J 
Even  so,  a  Mountain-Ash,  long  tried  by  shock 
Of  storms  endur'd  upon  the  native  rock, 

When  he  is  doom'd  from  rustic  arms  to  feel  835 

The  rival  blows  of  persevering  steel, 
Nods  high  with  threatening  forehead,  till  at  length 
Wounds  unremitting  have  subdued  his  strength ; 
With  groans  the  ancient  Tree  foretells  his  end ;  \ 
He  falls ;  and  fragments  of  the  mountain  blend  J  840 

With  the  precipitous  ruin. — I  descend  J 

And,  as  the  Godhead  leads,  'twixt  foe  and  fire 
Advance : — the  darts  withdraw,  the  flames  retire. 

But  when  beneath  her  guidance  I  had  come 

Far  as  the  Gates  of  the  paternal  Dome,  845 

My  Sire,  whom  first  I  sought  and  wish'd  to  bear 
For  safety  to  the  Hills,  disdains  that  caret; 
Nor  will  he  now,  since  Troy  hath  fall'n,  consent 
Life  to  prolong,  or  suffer  banishment. 

"Think  Fe,"  he  says,  "the  current  of  whose  blood  850 

Is  unimpaired,  whose  vigour  unsubdued, 
Think  Ye  of  flight ; — that  I  should  live,  the  Gods 
Wish  not,  or  they  had  sav'd  me  these  Abodes. 
Not  once,  but  twice,  this  City  to  survive, 

What  need  against  such  destiny  to  strive  ?  855 

While  thus,  even  thus  dispos'd  the  body  lies, 
Depart !  pronounce  my  funeral  obsequies ! 
Not  long  shall  I  have  here  to  wait  for  death, 
A  pitying  Foe  will  rid  me  of  my  breath, 

Will  seek  my  spoils ;  and  should  I  lie  forlorn  860 

Of  sepulture,  the  loss  may  well  be  borne. 
Full  long  obnoxious  to  the  Powers  divine 
Life  lingers  out  these  barren  years  of  mine ; 
Even  since  the  date  when  me  the  eternal  Sire 

Swept  with  the  thunderbolt,  and  scath'd  with  fire."  865 

Thus  he  persists ; — Creusa  and  her  Son 
Second  the  counter -prayer  by  me  begun ; 
The  total  House  with  weeping  deprecate 

828  still  are  seen  and]  are  apparent  C.  W.  829  appear]  the  Gods 

C.  W.  856  dispos*d  the]  composed  my  C.  W.  868  The 

whole  House  weeping  round  him  C.  W. 

332  APPENDIX   A 

This  weight  of  wilful  impulse  given  to  Fate ; 

He,  all  unmov'd  by  pleadings  and  by  tears,  870 

Guards  his  resolve,  and  to  the  spot  adheres. 

Arms  once  again  attract  me,  hurried  on 
In  misery,  and  craving  death  alone. 
"And  hast  thou  hop'd  that  I  could  move  to  find        "j 
A  place  of  rest,  thee,  Father,  left  behind  ?  >  875 

How  could  parental  lips  the  guilty  thought  unbind  ?  J 
If  in  so  great  a  City  Heaven  ordain 
Utter  extinction ;  if  thy  soul  retain 
With  stedfast  longing  that  abrupt  design 

Which  would  to  falling  Troy  add  thee  and  thine ;  880 

That  way  to  Death  lies  open ; — soon  will  stand 
Pyrrhus  before  thee  with  the  reeking  brand 
That  drank  the  blood  of  Priam ;  He  whose  hand 
The  Son  in  presence  of  the  Father  slays, 

And  at  the  Altar's  base  the  slaughtered  Father  lays.  885 

For  this,  benignant  Mother!  didst  thou  lead 
My  steps  along  a  way  from  danger  freed, 
That  I  might  see  remorseless  Men  invade 
The  holiest  places  that  these  roofs  o'ershade  ? 

See  Father,  Consort,  Son,  all  tinged  and  dy'd  890 

With  mutual  sprinklings,  perish  side  by  side  ? 
Arms  bring  me,  Friends ;  bring  Arms !  our  last  hour  speaks, 
It  calls  the  Vanquished ;  cast  me  on  the  Greeks. 
In  rallying  combat  let  us  join ; — not  all, 
This  night,  unsolac'd  by  revenge  shall  fall."  895 

The  sword  resumes  its  place ;  the  shield  I  bear ; 
And  hurry  now  to  reach  the  open  air ; 
When  on  the  ground  before  the  threshold  cast  ^ 
Lo !  where  Creusa  hath  my  feet  embrac'd  | 

And  holding  up  Ittlus,  there  cleaves  fast !  J  900 

"If  thou,  departing,  be  resolv'd  to  die, 
Take  us  through  all  that  in  thy  road  may  lie ; 
But  if  on  Arms,  already  tried,  attend 
A  single  hope,  then  first  this  House  defend ; 

On  whose  protection  Sire  and  Son  are  thrown,  905 

And  I,  the  Wife  that  once  was  call'd  thine  own." 

Such  outcry  filTd  the  Mansion,  when  behold 
A  strange  portent,  and  wonderous  to  be  told! 
All  suddenly  a  luminous  crest  was  seen ; 

891  Each  in  the  other's  life-blood  C.  W.  899  Creusa  check'd  my 

course  C.  W.  902  Let  us  b©  partners  of  thy  destiny  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  333 

Which,  where  the  Boy  lulus  hung  between  910 

The  arms  of  each  sad  Parent,  rose  and  shed, 

Tapering  aloft,  a  lustre  from  his  head ; 

Along  the  hair  the  lambent  flame  proceeds 

With  harmless  touch,  and  round  his  temples  feeds. 

In  fear  we  haste,  the  burning  tresses  shake,  915 

And  from  the  fount  the  holy  fire  would  slake ; 

But  joyfully  his  hands  Anchises  rais'd, 

His  voice  not  silent  as  on  Heaven  he  gaz'd : 

" Almighty  Jupiter!  if  prayers  have  power 

To  bend  thee,  look  on  us ;  I  seek  no  more ;  920 

If  aught  our  piety  deserve,  Oh  deign  \ 

The  hope  this  Omen  proffers  to  sustain ;  > 

Nor,  Father,  let  us  ask  a  second  Sign  in  vain!"J 

Thus  spake  the  Sire,  and  scarcely  ended,  ere 

A  peal  of  sudden  thunder,  loud  and  clear,  925 

Broke  from  the  left ;  and  shot  through  Heaven  a  star 
Trailing  its  torch,  that  sparkled  from  afar ; 
Above  the  roof  the  star,  conspicuous  sight,     \ 
Ran  to  be  hid  on  Ida's  sylvan  height.  > 

The  long  way  marking  with  a  train  of  light.  J  930 

The  furrowy  track  the  distant  sky  illumes, 
And  far  and  wide  are  spread  sulphureous  fumes. 
Uprisen  from  earth,  my  aged  Sire  implores 
The  Deities,  the  holy  Star  adores ; 

— "Now  am  I  conquer'd — now  is  no  delay;  935 

Gods  of  my  Country !  where  Ye  lead  the  way 
'Tis  not  in  me  to  hesitate  or  swerve ; 

Preserve  my  House,  Ye  Powers,  this  Little  One  preserve ! 
Yours  is  this  augury ;  and  Troy  hath  still 

Life  in  the  signs  that  manifest  your  will !  940 

I  cannot  chuse  but  yield ;  and  now  to  Thee, 
O  Son,  a  firm  Associate  will  I  be!" 

He  spake ;  and  nearer  through  the  City  came 
Rolling  more  audibly,  the  sea  of  flame. 

"Now  give,  dear  Father,  to  this  neck  the  freight  945 

Of  thy  old  age ; — the  burthen  will  be  light 
For  which  my  shoulders  bend ;  henceforth  one  fate, 
Evil  or  good  shall  we  participate. 
The  Boy  shall  journey,  tripping  at  my  side  ; 

Our  steps,  at  distance  mark'd,  will  be  Creusa's  guide.  950 

My  Household !  heed  these  words :  upon  a  Mound 
(To  those  who  quit  the  City  obvious  ground) 

928-9  ...  it  ran,  and  in  our  sight, 
Set  on  the  brow  of  C.  W. 

334  APPENDIX   A 

A  Temple,  once  by  Ceres  honour'd,  shews 

Its  mouldering  front ;  hard  by  a  Cypress  grows, 

Through  ages  guarded  with  religious  care ;  955 

Thither,  by  various  roads,  let  all  repair. 

Thou,  Father !  take  these  relics ;  let  thy  hand 

Bear  the  Penates  of  our  native  land ; 

I  may  not  touch  them,  fresh  from  deeds  of  blood, 

Till  the  stream  cleanse  me  with  its  living  flood."  960 

Forthwith  an  ample  vest  my  shoulders  clad, 
Above  the  vest  a  lion's  skin  was  spread, 
Next  came  the  living  Burthen ;  fast  in  mine 
His  little  hand  lulus  doth  entwine, 

Following  his  Father  with  no  equal  pace ;  965 

Creusa  treads  behind ;  the  darkest  ways  we  trace. 
And  me,.erewhile  insensible  to  harms,  \ 

Whom  adverse  Greeks  agglomerate  in  Arms  } 
Mov'd  not,  now  every  breath  of  air  alarms ;  J 

All  sounds  have  power  to  trouble  me  with  fear,  970 

Anxious  for  whom  I  lead,  and  whom  I  bear. 

Thus,  till  the  Gates  were  nigh,  my  course  I  shap'd, 
And  thought  the  hazards  of  the  time  escap'd, 
When  through  the  gloom  a  noise  of  feet  we  hear, 
Quick  sounds  that  seem'd  to  press  upon  the  ear ;  975 

"Fly,"  cries  my  Father,  looking  forth,  "Oh  fly! 
They  come — I  see  their  shields  and  dazzling  panoply!" 
Here,  in  my  trepidation  was  I  left, 
Through  some  unfriendly  Power,  of  mind  bereft, 
For,  while  I  journey 'd  devious  and  forlorn,  980 

From  me,  me  wretched,  was  Creusa  torn ; 
Whether  stopp'd  short  by  death,  or  from  the  road 
She  wander'd,  or  sank  down  beneath  a  load 
Of  weariness,  no  vestiges  made  plain : 

She  vanished,  ne'er  to  meet  these  eyes  again.  985 

Nor  did  I  seek  her  lost,  nor  backward  turn 
My  mind,  until  we  reach'd  the  sacred  bourne 
Of  ancient  Ceres.  All,  even  all,  save  One 
Were  in  the  spot  assembl'd ;  She  alone, 

As  if  her  melancholy  fate  disown'd  990 

Companion,  Son,  and  Husband,  nowhere  could  be  found. 
Who,  man  or  God,  from  my  reproach  was  free  ? 
Had  desolated  Troy  a  heavier  woe  for  me  ? 
'Mid  careful  friends  my  Sire  and  Son  I  place, 

986-7  I  sought  her  not,  misgiving  none  had  I 

Until  I  reached  the  sacred  boundary  C»  W. 

APPENDIX   A  335 

With  the  Penates  of  our  Phrygian  race,  995 

Deep  in  a  winding  vale ;  my  footsteps  then  retrace ; 
Resolv'd  the  whole  wide  City  to  explore 
And  face  the  perils  of  the  night  once  more. 

So,  with  refulgent  Arms  begirt,  I  haste 

Tow'rd  the  dark  gates  through  which  my  feet  had  pass'd,  1000 

Remeasure,  where  I  may,  the  beaten  ground, 
And  turn  at  every  step  a  searching  eye  around. 
Horror  prevails  on  all  sides,  while  with  dread 
The  very  silence  is  impregnated. 

Fast  to  my  Father's  Mansion  I  repair,  1005 

If  haply,  haply,  She  had  harbour'd  there. 
Seiz'd  by  the  Grecians  was  the  whole  Abode: 
And  now,  voracious  fire  its  mastery  shew'd, 
Roll'd  upward  by  the  wind  in  flames  that  meet  \ 

High  o'er  the  roof, — air  rages  with  the  heat ;  >  1010 

Thence  to  the  Towers  I  pass,  where  Priam  held  his  Seat.) 
Already  Phoenix  and  Ulysses  kept, 
As  chosen  Guards,  the  spoils  of  Ilium,  heap'd 
In  Juno's  Temple,  and  the  wealth  that  rose 

Pil'd  on  the  floors  of  vacant  porticos,  1015 

Prey  torn  through  fire  from  many  a  secret  Hold, 
Vests,  tables  of  the  Gods,  and  cups  of  massy  gold. 
And,  in  long  order,  round  these  treasures  stand 
Matrons,  and  Boys,  and  Youths,  a  trembling  Band ! 

Nor  did  I  spare  with  fearless  voice  to  raise  1020 

Shouts  in  the  gloom  that  fill'd  the  streets  and  ways, 
And  with  reduplication  sad  and  vain, 
Creusa  call'd,  again  and  yet  again. 
While  thus  I  prosecute  an  endless  quest 

A  Shape  was  seen,  unwelcome  and  unblest ;  1025 

Creusa's  Shade  appoar'd  before  rny  eyes, 
Her  Image,  but  of  more  than  mortal  size ; 
Then  I,  as  if  the  power  of  life  had  pass'd 
Into  my  upright  hair,  stood  speechless  and  aghast. 
— She  thus — to  stop  my  troubles  at  their  source:  1030 

"Dear  Consort,  why  this  fondly -desperate  course  ? 
Supernal  Powers,  not  doubtfully,  prepare 
These  issues ;  going  hence  thou  wilt  not  bear 
Creusa  with  thee ;  know  that  Fate  denies 

This  Fellowship,  and  this  the  Ruler  of  the  skies.  1035 

Long  wanderings  will  be  thine,  no  home  allow'd ; 
Vast  the  extent  of  sea  that  must  be  plough'd 

1035  and  this]  nor  this  permits  C.  W. 

336  APPENDIX   A 

Ere,  mid  Hesperian  fields  where  Tiber  flows 

With  gentle  current,  thy  tired  keels  repose. 

Joy  meets  thee  there,  a  Realm  and  royal  Bride,  \  1040 

— For  lov'd  Creusa  let  thy  tears  be  dried ;  1 

I  go  not  where  the  Myrmidons  abide.  J 

No  proud  Dolopian  Mansion  shall  I  see 

Nor  shall  a  Grecian  Dame  be  serv'd  by  me, 

Deriv'd  from  Jove,  and  rais'd  by  thee  so  high,  1045 

Spouse  to  the  Offspring  of  a  Deity, — 

Far  otherwise ;  upon  my  native  plains 

Me  the  great  Mother  of  the  Gods  detains. 

Now,  fare  thee  well !  protect  our  Son,  and  prove 

By  tenderness  for  him,  our  common  love."  1050 

This  having  said — my  trouble  to  subdue, 
Into  thin  air  she  silently  withdrew ; 
Left  me  while  tears  were  gushing  from  their  springs, 
And  on  my  tongue  a  thousand  hasty  things ; 

Thrice  with  my  arms  I  strove  her  neck  to  clasp,  1055 

Thrice  had  my  hands  succeeded  in  their  grasp, 
From  which  the  Image  slipp'd  away,  as  light 
As  the  swift  winds,  or  sleep  when  taking  flight. 

Such  was  the  close ;  and  now  the  night  thus  spent, 
Back  to  my  Friends  an  eager  course  I  bent,  1060 

And  here  a  crowd  with  wonder  I  behold 
Of  new  Associates,  concourse  manifold ! 
Matrons,  and  Men,  and  Youths  that  hither  hied,  \ 
For  exile  gathering ;  and  from  every  side  > 

The  wretched  people  throng'd  and  multiplied ;     J  1065 

Prepar'd  with  mind  and  means  their  flight  to  speed 
Across  the  seas,  where  I  might  chuse  to  lead. 

Now  on  the  ridge  of  Ida's  summit  grey 
Rose  Lucifer,  prev&nient  to  the  day. 

The  Grecians  held  the  Gates  in  close  blockade,  1070 

Hope  was  there  none  of  giving  further  aid ; 
I  yielded,  took  my  Father  up  once  more, 
And  sought  the  Mountain,  with  the  Freight  I  bore. 


Now  when  the  Gods  had  crush'd  the  Asian  State 

And  Priam's  race,  by  too  severe  a  fate ; 

When  they  were  pleas'd  proud  Ilium  to  destroy, 

And  smokes  upon  the  ground  Neptunian  Troy ; 

The  sad  Survivors,  from  their  country  driven,  5 

1047  This  fate  I  dread  not;  on  etc.  C.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  337 

Seek  distant  shores,  impell'd  by  signs  from  Heaven. 

Beneath  Antandros  we  prepare  a  Fleet — 

There  my  Companions  muster  at  the  feet 

Of  Phrygian  Ida,  dubious  in  our  quest, 

And  where  the  Fates  may  suffer  us  to  rest.  10 

Scarcely  had  breath 'd  the  earliest  summer  gales 

Before  Anchises  bid  to  spread  the  sails ; 

Weeping  I  quit  the  Port,  my  native  coast, 

And  fields  where  Troy  once  was ;  and  soon  am  lost 

An  Exile  on  the  bosom  of  the  seas,  15 

With  Friends,  Son,  household  Gods  and  the  great  Deities. 

Right  opposite  is  spread  a  peopled  Land, 
Where  once  the  fierce  Lycurgus  held  command ; 
The  martial  Thracians  plough  its  champain  wide,  \ 
To  Troy  by  hospitable  rites  allied,  >  20 

While  Fortune  favour 'd  to  this  coast  we  hied ;         J 
Where  entering  with  unfriendly  Fates,  I  lay 
My  first  foundations  in  a  hollow  bay ; 
And  call  the  men  ^Eneades, — to  share 

With  the  new  Citoyens  the  name  I  bear.  25 

To  Dionaean  Venus  we  present, 
And  to  the  Gods  who  aid  a  fresh  intent, 
The  sacred  offerings ;  and  with  honour  due 
Upon  the  shore  a  glossy  Bull  I  slew 

To  the  great  King  of  Heaven.   A  Mount  was  near       \  30 

Upon  whose  summit  cornel  trees  uprear  > 

Their  boughs,  and  myrtles  rough  with  many  a  spear.  J 
Studious  to  deck  the  Altar  with  green  shoots, 
Thither  I  turn'd ;  and,  tugging  at  the  roots 

Strove  to  despoil  the  thicket ;  when  behold  35 

A  dire  portent,  and  wondrous  to  be  told! 
No  sooner  was  the  shatter'd  root  laid  bare 
Of  the  first  Tree  I  struggled  to  uptear, 

Than  from  the  fibres  drops  of  blood  distill'd,  \ 

Whose  blackness  stain'd  the  ground: — me  horror  thrilTd:   }         40 
My  frame  all  shudder'd,  and  my  blood  was  chiird.  J 

Persisting  in  the  attempt,  I  toil'd  to  free 
The  flexile  body  of  another  tree, 
Anxious  the  latent  causes  to  explore ; 

And  from  the  bark  blood  trickled  as  before.  45 

Revolving  much  in  mind  forthwith  I  paid 
Vows  to  the  sylvan  Nymphs,  and  sought  the  aid 
Of  Father  Mars,  spear-shaking  God  who  yields 
His  stern  protection  to  the  Thracian  fields ; 

That  to  a  prosperous  issue  they  would  guide  50 

917.17  IV  Z 

338  APPENDIX   A 

The  accident,  the  omen  turn  aside. 

But,  for  a  third  endeavour,  when  with  hands 

Eagerly  strain 'd,  knees  press'd  against  the  sands, 

I  strive  the  myrtle  lances  to  uproot 

With  my  whole  strength  (speak  shall  I,  or  be  mute  ?)  55 

From  the  deep  tomb  a  mournful  groan  waa  sent 

And  a  voice  followed,  uttering  this  lament: 

"Torment  me  not,  ^Eneas.   Why  this  pain       \ 

Given  to  a  buried  Man  ?   O  cease,  refrain,         \ 

And  spare  thy  pious  hands  this  guilty  stain!   J  60 

Troy  brought  me  forth,  no  alien  to  thy  blood ; 

Nor  yields  a  senseless  trunk  this  sable  flood. 

Oh  fly  the  cruol  land ;  the  greedy  shore 

Forsake  with  speed,  for  I  am  Polydore. 

A  flight  of  iron  darts  have  pierced  me  through,  65 

Took*  life,  and  into  this  sharp  thicket  grew." 

Then  truly  did  I  stand  aghast,  cold  fear 

Strangling  my  voice,  and  lifting  up  my  hair. 

Erewhile  from  Troy  had  Priam  sent  by  stealth 

This  Polydore,  and  with  him  stores  of  wealth ;  70 

Trusting  the  Thracian  King  his  Son  would  rear : 

For  wretched  Priam  now  gave  way  to  fear, 

Seeing  the  Town  beleaguer 'd.   These  alarms 

Spread  to  the  Thracian  King,  and  when  the  Arms 

Of  Troy  were  quelled,  to  the  victorious  side  75 

Of  Agamemnon  he  his  hopes  allied ; 

Breaking  through  sacred  laws  without  remorse, 

Slew  Polydore,  and  seized  the  gold  by  force. 

What  mischief  to  poor  mortals  has  not  thirst 

Of  gold  created !  appetite  accurs'd !  80 

Soon  as  a  calmer  mind  I  could  recal 

I  seek  the  Chiefs,  my  Father  above  all ; 

Report  the  omen,  and  their  thoughts  demand. 

One  mind  is  theirs, — to  quit  the  impious  Land ; 

With  the  first  breezes  of  the  South  to  fly  85 

Sick  of  polluted  hospitality. 

Forthwith  on  Polydore  our  hands  bestow 

A  second  burial,  and  fresh  mould  upthrow ; 

And  to  his  Manes  raise  beside  the  mound  \ 

Altars,  which,  as  they  stood  in  mournful  round,  1  9c 

Cerulean  fillets  and  black  cypress  bound ;  J 

And  with  loose  hair  a  customary  Band 

Of  Trojan  Women  in  the  circle  stand. 

From  cups  warm  milk  and  sacred  blood  we  pour,  \ 

Thus  to  the  tomb  the  Spirit  we  restore ;  J  93 

And  with  a  farewell  cry  its  future  rest  implore.      J 

APPENDIX   A  339 

Then,  when  the  sea  grew  calm,  and  gently  creeps 
The  soft  South-wind  and  calls  us  to  the  Deeps, 
The  Crew  draw  down  our  Ships ;  they  crowd  the  Shore,  \ 
The  Port  we  leave ;  with  Cities  sprinkl'd  o'er,  >  100 

Slowly  the  Coast  recedes,  and  then  is  seen  no  more.         J 

In  the  'mid  Deep  there  lies  a  spot  of  earth, 
Sacred  to  her  who  gave  the  Nereids  birth ; 
And  to  ^gean  Neptune.   Long  was  toss'd 

This  then  unfruitful  ground,  and  driven  from  coast  to  coast ;     105 
But,  as  it  floated  on  the  wide-spread  sea, 
The  Archer- God,  in  filial  piety, 
Between  two  Sister  islands  bound  it  fast 
For  Man's  abode,  and  to  defy  the  blast. 

Thither  we  steer.   At  length  the  unruffled  Place  no 

Received  our  Vessels  in  her  calm  embrace. 
We  land — and,  when  the  pleasant  soil  we  trod, 
Adored  the  City  of  the  Delian  God, 
Anius,  the  King  (whose  brows  were  wreath'd  around 
With  laurel  garlands  and  with  fillets  bound,  115 

His  sacred  symbols  as  Apollo's  Priest) 
Ad  vane 'd  to  meet  us,  from  our  ships  releas'd ; 
He  recognized  Anchises ;  and  their  hands 
Gladly  they  join,  renewing  ancient  Bands 

Of  Hospitality ;  nor  longer  waits  120 

The  King,  but  leads  us  to  his  friendly  gates. 

To  seek  the  Temple  was  my  early  care ; 
To  whose  Divinity  I  bow'd  in  prayer 
Within  the  reverend  Pile  of  ancient  stone :  \ 

"Thymbreus !  painful  wanderings  have  we  known  >  125 

Grant,  to  the  weary,  dwellings  of  their  own !        J 
A  City  yield,  a  Progeny  ensure, 
A  habitation  destined  to  endure ! — 
— To  us,  sad  relics  of  the  Grecian  Sword, 

(All  that  is  left  of  Troy)  another  Troy  accord!  130 

What  shall  we  seek  ?  whom  follow  ?  'where  abide  ?\ 
Vouchsafe  an  augury  our  course  to  guide ;  J 

Father,  descend,  and  thro'  our  Spirits  glide!"         J 
— Then  shook,  or  seem'd  to  shake,  the  entire  Abode ; 
A  trembling  seiz'd  the  Laurels  of  the  God ;  135 

The  mountain  rock'd ;  and  sounds  with  murmuring  swell  \ 
R/oll'd  from  the  Shrine ;  upon  the  ground  I  fell,  1 

And  heard  the  guiding  voice  our  fates  foretell.  J 

"Ye  patient  Dardans !  that  same  Land  which  bore 
From  the  first  Stock  your  Fathers  heretofore ;  140 

340  APPENDIX   A 

That  ancient  Mother  will  unfold  her  breast 
For  your  return, — seek  Her  with  faithful  quest ; 
So  shall  the  ^Enean  Line  command  the  earth 
As  long  as  future  years  to  future  years  give  birth." 

Thus  Phoebus  answer'd,  and  forthwith  the  crowd  145 

Burst  into  transport  vehement  and  loud : 
All  ask  what  Phoebus  wills ;  and  where  the  bourne 
To  which  Troy's  wandering  Race  are  destin'd  to  return. 
Then  spake  my  aged  Father,  turning  o'er 

Traditions  handed  down  from  days  of  yore ;  150 

"Give  ear,"  he  said,  "O  Chieftains,  while  my  words 
Unfold  the  hopes  this  Oracle  affords ! 
On  the  mid  sea  the  Cretan  Island  lies, 
Dear  to  the  sovereign  Lord  of  earth  and  skies ; 
There *is  the  Idean  Mount,  and  there  we  trace  155 

The  fountain-head,  the  cradle  of  our  race. 
A  hundred  Cities,  places  of  command, 
Rise  in  the  circle  of  that  fruitful  land ; 
Thence  to  Rhoetean  shores  (if  things  oft  heard 
I  faithfully  remember)  Teucer  steer 'd,  160 

Our  first  progenitor ;  and  chose  a  spot 
His  Seat  of  government  when  Troy  was  not ; 
While  yet  the  Natives  housed  in  vallies  deep, 
Ere  Pergamus  had  risen,  to  crown  the  lofty  steep. 
From  Crete  came  Cybele;  from  Crete  we  gained  165 

All  that  the  Mother  of  the  Gods  ordain'd ; 
The  Cory  bant  ian  Cymbals  thence  we  drew, 
The  Idaean  Grove ;  and  faithful  Silence,  due 
To  rites  mysterious ;  and  the  Lion  pair 

Ruled  by  the  Goddess  from  her  awful  Car.  170 

Then  haste — the  Mandate  of  the  Gods  obey 
And  to  the  Gnossian  Realms  direct  our  way ; 
But  first  the  winds  propitiate,  and  if  Jove 
From  his  high  Throne  the  enterprize  approve, 
The  third  day's  light  shall  bring  our  happy  Fleet  175 

To  a  safe  harbour  on  the  shores  of  Crete." 

He  spake,  appropriate  Victims  forth  were  led, 
And  by  his  hand  upon  the  Altars  bled ; 
A  Bull  to  soothe  the  God  who  rules  the  Sea — 
A  Bull,  O  bright  Apollo !  fell  to  thee,  x8o 

A  sable  sheep  for  Hyems  doth  he  smite, 
For  the  soft  Zephyrs  one  of  purest  white. 
Fame  told  that  regions  would  in  Crete  be  found 
Bare  of  the  foe,  deserted  tracts  of  ground ; 

APPENDIX   A  341 

Left  by  Idomeneus,  to  recent  flight  185 

Driven  from  those  realms — his  patrimonial  right. 

Chear'd  by  a  hope  those  valiant  seats  to  gain 

We  quit  the  Ortygian  Shore,  and  scud  along  the  Main. 

Near  ridgy  Naxos,  travers'd  by  a  rout 

Of  madding  Bacchanals  with  song  and  shout ;  190 

By  green  Donysa  rising  o'er  the  Deeps ; 

Olearos,  and  snow-white  Parian  steeps ; 

Flying  with  prosperous  sail  thro'  sounds  and  seas 

Starr'd  with  the  thickly -clustering  Cyclades. 

Confused  and  various  clamour  rises  high ;     \  195 

"To  Crete  and  to  our  Ancestors"  we  cry        1 

While  Ships  and  Sailors  each  with  other  vie.  J 

Still  freshening  from  the  stern  the  breezes  blow, 

And  speed  the  Barks  they  chase,  where'er  we  go ; 

Till  rest  is  giv'n  upon  the  ancient  Shores  200 

Of  the  Curetes  to  their  Sails  and  Oars. 

So  with  keen  hope  I  trace  a  circling  Wall  \ 

And  the  new  City,  by  a  name  which  all      > 

Repeat  with  gladness,  Pergamus  I  call.      J 

The  thankful  Citoyens  I  then  exhort  205 

To  love  their  hearths,  and  raise  a  guardian  Fort. 

— The  Fleet  is  drawn  ashore ;  in  eager  Bands 

The  Settlers  cultivate  the  allotted  lands ; 

And  some  for  Hymeneal  rites  prepare ;  \ 

I  plan  our  new  Abodes,  fit  laws  declare  ;  J  210 

But  pestilence  now  came,  and  tainted  the  wide  air.  J 

To  piteous  wasting  were  our  limbs  betrayed ; 

On  trees  and  plants  the  deadly  season  preyed. 

The  men  relinquished  their  dear  lives, — or  life 

Remaining,  dragged  their  frames  in  feeble  strife.  215 

Thereafter,  Sirius  clomb  the  sultry  sky,  \ 

Parch  'd  every  herb  to  bare  sterility ;  J 

And  forc'd  the  sickly  corn  its  nurture  to  deny.  J 

My  anxious  Sire  exhorts  to  seek  once  more 

The  Delian  shrine,  and  pardon  thence  implore ;  220 

Ask  of  the  God  to  what  these  sorrows  tend, 

Whence  we  must  look  for  aid,  our  voyage  whither  bend. 

'Twas  night,  and  couch'd  upon  the  dewy  ground 
The  weary  Animals  in  sleep  were  bound, 

When  those  Penates  which  my  hands  had  snatch'd  225 

From  burning  Troy,  while  on  my  bed  I  watch'd, 
Appeared,  and  stood  before  me,  to  my  sight 
Made  manifest  by  copious  streams  of  light 
Pour'd  from  the  body  of  the  full-orbed  Moon, 


That  thro'  the  loop-holes  of  my  chamber  shone.  230 

Thus  did  they  speak:  "We  come,  the  Delegates 

Of  Phoebus,  to  foretell  thy  future  fates : 

Things  which  his  Delian  tripod  to  thine  ear 

Would  have  announced,  thro'  us  he  utters  here. 

When  Troy  was  burnt  we  crost  the  billowy  sea  \  235 

Faithful  Attendants  on  thy  arms,  and  We  | 

Shall  raise  to  Heaven  thy  proud  Posterity.          J 

But  thou  thy  destined  wanderings  stoutly  bear, 

And  for  the  Mighty,  mighty  seats  prepare ; 

These  thou  must  leave ; — Apollo  ne'er  design'd  240 

That  thou  in  Crete  a  resting-place  should 'st  find. 

There  is  a  Country  styled  by  Men  of  Greece 

Hesperia — strong  in  arms — the  soil  of  large  increase, 

^Enotrians  held  it ;  men  of  later  fame 

Call  it  Italia,  from  their  Leader's  name ;  245 

Our  home  is  there ;  there  lies  the  native  place 

Of  Dardaiius,  and  lasius — whence  our  race. 

Rise  then ;  and  to  thy  aged  Father  speak 

Indubitable  tidings ; — bid  him  seek 

The  Ausonian  Land,  and  Corithus ;  Jove  yields  230 

No  place  to  us  among  Dictean  fields." 

Upon  the  sacred  spectacle  I  gaz'd, 
And  heard  the  utterance  of  the  Gods,  amaz'd. 
Sleep  in  this  visitation  had  no  share ; 

Each  face  I  saw — the  fillets  round  their  hair !  255 

Chilled  with  damp  fear  I  started  from  the  bed, 
And  raised  my  hands  and  voice  to  heav'n — then  shed 
On  the  recipient  hearth  untemper'd  wine 
In  prompt  libation  to  the  powers  divine. 

This  rite  performed  with  joy,  my  Sire  I  sought  260 

Charged  with  the  message  that  the  Gods  had  brought ; 
When  I  had  open'd  all  in  order  due 
The  truth  found  easy  entrance ;  for  he  knew 
The  double  Ancestors,  the  ambiguous  race, 

And  own'd  his  new  mistake  in  person  and  in  place.  265 

Then  he  exclaim'd  "O  Son,  severely  tried 
In  all  that  Troy  is  fated  to  abide, 
This  course  Cassandra's  voice  to  me  made  known ; 
She  prophesied  of  this,  and  she  alone ; 

Italia  oft  she  cried,  and  words  outthrew  270 

Of  realms  Hesperian,  to  our  Nation  due : 
But  how  should  Phrygians  such  a  power  erect  ? 
Whom  did  Cassandra's  sayings  then  affect  ? 
Now,  let  us  yield  to  Phoebus,  and  pursue 

APPENDIX   A  343 

The  happier  lot  he  offers  to  our  view."  275 

All  heard  with  transport  what  my  Father  spake. 

This  habitation  also  we  forsake ; 

And  strait,  a  scanty  remnant  left  behind, 

Once  more  in  hollow  Ships  we  court  the  helpful  wind. 

But  when  along  the  Deep  our  Gallies  steer'd,  280 

And  the  last  speck  of  land  had  disappeared, 
And  nought  was  visible,  above,  around, 
Save  the  blank  sky,  and  ocean  without  bound, 
Then  came  a  Tempest -laden  Cloud  that  stood 

Right  over  me,  and  rouz'd  the  blackening  flood.  285 

The  fleet  is  scatter 'd,  while  around  us  rise 
Billows  that  every  moment  magnifies. 
Day  fled,  and  heaven,  enveloped  in  a  night 
Of  stormy  rains,  is  taken  from  our  sight ; 

By  instincts  of  their  own  the  clouds  are  riven  290 

And  prodigal  of  fire — while  we  are  driven 
Far  from  the  points  we  aim'd  at,  every  bark 
Errant  upon  the  waters  rough  and  dark. 
Even  Palinurus  owns  that  night  and  day, 

Thus  in  each  other  lost,  confound  his  way.  295 

Three  sunless  days  we  struggle  with  the  gales, 
And  for  three  starless  nights  all  guidance  fails ; 
The  fourth  day  came,  and  to  our  wistful  eyes 
The  far-oflt  Land  then  first  began  to  rise, 

Lifting  itself  in  hills  that  gently  broke  300 

Upon  our  view,  and  rolling  clouds  of  smoke. 
Sails  drop ;  the  Mariners,  with  spring  and  stoop  \ 

Timed  to  their  oars,  the  eddying  waters  scoop,  > 

The  Vessels  skim  the  waves,  alive  from  prow  to  poop.  J 

Saved  from  the  perils  of  the  stormy  seas,  305 

We  disembark  upon  the  Strophades ; 
Amid  the  Ionian  Waters  lie  this  pair 
Of  Islands,  and  that  Grecian  name  they  bear. 
The  brood  of  Harpies,  when  in  fear  they  left 

The  doors  of  Phineus, — of  that  home  bereft  310 

And  of  their  former  tables — thither  fled, 
There  dwelt  with  dire  Celseno  at  their  head. 
No  plague  so  hideous,  for  impure  abuse 
Of  upper  air,  did  ever  Styx  produce, 

Stirr'd  by  the  anger  of  the  Gods,  to  fling  315 

From  out  her  waves  some  new-born  monstrous  Thing. 
Birds  they,  with  virgin  faces,  crooked  claws ;      \ 
Of  filthy  paunch  and  of  insatiate  maws,  1 

And  pallid  mien — from  hunger  without  pause.    J 

344  APPENDIX   A 

Here  safe  in  port  we  saw  the  fields  o'erspread  320 

With  beeves  and  goats,  untended  as  they  fed. 
Prompt  slaughter  follows ;  offerings  there  we  pay, 
And  call  on  Jove  himself  to  share  the  prey. 
Then,  couch  by  couch,  along  the  bay  we  rear, 

And  feast  well  pleased  upon  that  goodly  chear.  325 

But,  clapping  loud  their  wings,  the  Harpy  brood 
Hush  from  the  mountain — pounce  upon  our  food, 
Pollute  the  morsels  which  they  fail  to  seize — 
And,  screaming,  load  with  noisome  scents  the  breeze. 
Again — but  now  within  a  long-drawn  glade  330 

O'erhung  with  rocks  and  boughs  of  roughest  shade 
We  deck  our  tables,  and  replace  the  fire 
Upon  the  Altars ;  but,  with  noises  dire, 
From  different  points  of  Heaven,  from  blind  retreats, 
They  flock — and  hovering  o'er  defile  the  meats.  335 

"War  let  them  have,"  I  cried,  and  gave  command 
To  stem  the  next  foul  onset,  arms  in  hand. 
Forthwith  the  men  withdraw  from  sight  their  shields 
And  hide  their  swords  where  grass  a  covert  yields, 
But  when  the  Harpies  with  loud  clang  once  more  340 

Gathered,  and  spread  upon  the  curved  shore, 
From  a  tall  eminence  in  open  view 
His  trumpet  sound  of  charge  Misenus  blew ; 
Then  do  our  swords  assault  those  Fowls  obscene, 
Of  generation  aqueous  and  terrene.  345 

But  what  avails  it  ?  oft  repeated  blows 
They  with  inviolable  plumes  oppose ; 
Baffle  the  steel,  and,  leaving  stains  behind 
And  spoil  half  eaten,  mount  upon  the  wind ; 

Celaeno  only  on  a  summit  high  350 

Perched — and  there  vented  this  sad  prophecy. 

"By  war,  Descendants  of  Laomedon! 
For  our  slain  Steers,  by  war  would  ye  atone  ? 
Why  seek  the  blameless  Harpies  to  expel 

From  regions  where  by  right  of  birth  they  dwell  ?  355 

But  learn,  and  fast  within  your  memories  hold,^ 
Things  which  to  Phoebus  Jupiter  foretold,  J 
Phoebus  to  me,  and  I  to  you  unfold,  J 

I,  greatest  of  the  Furies.  Ye,  who  strive 

For  Italy,  in  Italy  shall  arrive ;  360 

Havens  within  that  wished-for  land,  by  leave 
Of  favouring  winds,  your  Navy  shall  receive ; 
But  do  not  hope  to  raise  those  promised  Walls 
Ere  on  your  head  the  curse  of  hunger  falls ; 


And,  for  the  slaughter  of  our  herds,  your  doom  365 

Hath  been  your  very  tables  to  consume, 

Gnaw'd  and  devoured  thro'  utter  want  of  food!" 

She  spake,  and,  borne  on  wings,  sought  refuge  in  the  wood. 

The  haughty  spirits  of  the  Men  were  quail'd, 

A  shuddering  fear  thro'  every  heart  prevail'd ;  370 

On  force  of  arms  no  longer  they  rely 
To  daunt  whom  prayers  and  vows  must  pacify, 
Whether  to  Goddesses  the  offence  were  given, 
Or  they  with  dire  and  obscene  Birds  had  striven. 
Due  Rites  ordain'd,  as  on  the  shore  he  stands,  375 

My  Sire  Anchises,  with  uplifted  hands, 
Invokes  the  greater  Gods ;  "Ye  Powers,  disarm 
This  threat,  and  from  your  Votaries  turn  the  harm!" 
Then  bids  to  loose  the  Cables  and  unbind 
The  willing  canvas,  to  the  breeze  resign'd.  380 

Where  guides  the  Steersman  and  the  south  winds  urge 
Our  rapid  keels,  we  skim  the  foaming  surge, 
Before  us  opens  midway  in  the  flood 
Zacynthus,  shaded  with  luxuriant  wood ; 

Dulichium  now,  and  Same  next  appears ;  385 

And  Neritos  a  craggy  summit  rears ; 
We  shun  the  rocks  of  Ithaca,  ill  Nurse 
Of  stern  Ulysses !  and  her  soil  we  curse ; 
Then  Mount  Leucate  shews  its  vapoury  head ; 

Where,  from  his  temple,  Phoebus  strikes  with  dread  390 

The  passing  Mariner ;  but  no  mischance 
Now  fear'd,  to  that  small  City  we  advance ; 
Gladly  we  haul  the  sterns  ashore,  and  throw 
The  biting  Anchor  out  from  every  prow. 

Unlook'd-for  land  thus  reach'd,  to  Jove  we  raise  395 

The  votive  Altars  which  with  incense  blaze ; 
Our  Youth,  illustrating  the  Actian  Strand 
With  Trojan  games,  as  in  their  native  land 
Imbue  their  naked  limbs  with  slippery  oil, 

And  pant  for  mastery  in  athletic  toil ;  400 

Well  pleas'd  so  fair  a  voyage  to  have  shap'd 
'Mid  Grecian  Towns  on  every  side  escap'd. 
Sol  thro'  his  annual  round  meanwhile  had  pass'd, 
And  the  Sea  roughened  in  the  wintry  blast ; 

High  on  the  Temple  Gate  a  brazen  shield  405 

I  fixed,  which  mighty  Abbas  used  to  wield ; 
Inscriptive  verse  declar'd,  why  this  was  done, 

346  APPENDIX   A 

"Arms  from  the  conquering  Greeks  and  by  JEneas  won." 

Then  at  my  word  the  Ships  their  moorings  leave, 

And  with  contending  oars  the  waters  cleave;  410 

Phaeacian  Peaks  beheld  in  air  and  lost 

As  we  proceed,  Epirus  now  we  coast ; 

And,  a  Chaonian  harbour  won,  we  greet 

Buthrotas,  perch'd  upon  her  lofty  seat. 

Helenus,  Son  of  Priam,  here  was  Chief,  415 

(So  ran  the  tale  ill-fitted  for  belief), 
Govern'd  where  Grecian  Pyrrhus  once  had  reign'd, 
Whose  sceptre  wielding  he,  therewith,  had  gain'd 
Andromache  his  Spouse, — to  nuptials  led 

Once  more  by  one  whom  Troy  had  borne  and  bred.  420 

I  long'd  to  greet  him,  wish'd  to  hear  his  fate 
As  his  own  voice  the  Story  would  relate. 
So  from  the  Port  in  which  our  gallies  lay, 
Right  tow'rds  the  City  I  pursu'd  my  way. 

A  Grove  there  was,  where  by  a  streamlet's  side  425 

With  the  proud  name  of  Simois  dignified, 
Andromache  a  solemn  service  paid, 
(As  chanc'd  that  day)  invoking  Hector's  shade ; 
There  did  her  hands  the  mournful  gifts  present 
Before  a  tomb — his  empty  monument  430 

Of  living  green -sward  hallowed  by  her  care ;    \ 
And  two  funereal  Altars,  planted  near,  J 

Quicken'd  the  motion  of  each  falling  tear,       J 
When  my  approach  she  witness'd,  and  could  see 
Our  Phrygian  Arms,  she  shrank  as  from  a  prodigy,  435 

In  blank  astonishment  and  terror  shook, 
While  the  warm  blood  her  tottering  limbs  forsook. 
She  swoon'd  and  long  lay  senseless  on  the  ground, 
Before  these  broken  words  a  passage  found ; 

''Was  that  a  re&l  Shape  which  met  my  view  ?  440 

Son  of  a  Goddess,  is  thy  coming  true  ? 
Liv'st  thou  ?  or,  if  the  light  of  life  be  fled, 
Hector,  where  is  he  ?"  This  she  spake, — then  spread 
A  voice  of  weeping  thro'  the  Grove,  and  I 

Utter'd  these  few  faint  accents  in  disturb'd  reply.  445 

"Fear  not  to  trust  thine  eyes ;  I  live  indeed, 
And  fraught  with  trouble  is  the  life  I  lead. 
Fallen  from  the  height,  where  with  thy  glorious  Mate 
Thou  stood'st,  Andromache,  what  change  had  Fate 
To  offer  worthy  of  thy  former  state  ?  450 

Say,  did  the  Gods  take  pity  on  thy  vows  ? 
Or  have  they  given  to  Pyrrhus  Hector's  Spouse  ?" 


Then  she  with  downcast  look,  and  voice  subdu'd ; 
"Thrice  happy  Virgin,  thou  of  Priam's  blood, 

Who,  in  the  front  of  Troy  by  timely  doom,  455 

Did'st  pour  out  life  before  a  hostile  tomb ; 
And,  slaughter'd  thus,  wert  guarded  from  the  wrong 
Of  being  swept  by  lot  amid  a  helpless  throng ! 
O  happiest  above  all  who  ne'er  did  press 

A  conquering  Master's  bed,  in  captive  wretchedness!  460 

I,  since  our  Ilium  fell,  have  undergone 
(Wide  waters  cross'd)  whate'er  Achilles'  Son 
Could  in  the  arrogance  of  birth  impose, 
And  faced  in  servitude  a  Mother's  throes. 

Hereafter,  he  at  will  the  knot  unty'd,  465 

To  seek  Hermione  a  Spartan  Bride ; 
And  me  to  Trojan  Helenus  he  gave — 
Captive  to  Captive — if  not  Slave  to  Slave. 
Whereat,  Orestes  with  strong  love  inflam'd 

Of  her  now  lost  whom  as  a  bride  he  claim 'd,  470 

And  by  the  Furies  driv'n,  in  vengeful  ire 
Smote  Pyrrhus  at  the  Altar  of  his  Sire. 
He,  by  an  unexpected  blow,  thus  slain, 
On  Helenus  devolv'd  a  part  of  his  Domain, 

Who  call'd  the  neighbouring  fields  Chaonian  ground,  475 

Chaonia  named  the  Region  wide  around, 
From  Trojan  Chaon, — chusing  for  the  site 
Of  a  new  Porgamus  yon  rocky  height. 
But  thee  a  Stranger  in  a  land  unknown 

What  Fates  have  urg'd  ?   What  winds  have  hither  blown  ?         480 
Or  say  what  God  upon  our  coasts  hath  thrown  ? 
Survives  the  Boy  Ascanius  ?  In  his  heart 
Doth  his  lost  Mother  still  retain  her  part  ? 
What,  Son  of  great  ^Eneas,  brings  he  forth 

In  emulation  of  his  Father's  worth  ?  485 

In  Priam's  Grandchild  doth  not  Hector  raise 
High  hopes  to  reach  the  virtue  of  past  days  ?" 

Then  follow'd  sobs  and  lamentations  vain ; 
But  from  the  City,  with  a  numerous  train, 

Her  living  Consort  Helenus  descends ;  490 

He  saw,  and  gave  glad  greeting  to  his  Friends ; 
And  tow'rds  his  hospitable  palace  leads 
While  passion  interrupts  the  speech  it  feeds. 
As  we  advance  I  gratulate  with  joy 
Their  dwindling  Xanthus,  and  thoir  little  Troy ;  495 

470  bride]  wife  MS. 


Their  Pergamus  aspiring  in  proud  state,  \ 

As  if  it  strove  the  old  to  emulate ;  j 

And  clasp  the  threshold  of  their  Scaean  Gate.) 

Nor  fails  this  kindred  City  to  excite 

In  my  Associates  unreserv'd  delight ;  500 

And  soon  in  ample  Porticos  the  King 

Receives  the  Band  with  earnest  welcoming ; 

Amid  the  Hall  high  festival  we  hold, 

Refresh'd  with  viands  serv'd  in  massy  gold 

And  from  resplendent  goblets,  votive  wine  505 

Flows  in  libations  to  the  Powers  divine. 

Two  joyful  days  thus  past,  the  southern  breeze 
Once  more  invites  my  Fleet  to  trust  the  Seas ; 
To  Helenus  this  suit  I  then  prefer : 

"Illustrious  Trojan!  Heaven's  interpreter!  510 

By  prescient  Phoebus  with  his  spirit  fill'd, 
SkilTd  in  the  tripod,  in  the  Laurel  skill'd ; 
Skill'd  in  the  stars,  and  what  by  voice  or  wing 
Birds  to  the  intelligence  of  mortals  bring ; 

Now  mark: — to  Italy  my  course  I  bend  \  515 

Urged  by  the  Gods  who  for  this  aim  portend,    > 
By  every  sign  they  give,  a  happy  end.  J 

The  Harpy  Queen,  she  only  doth  presage 
A  curse  of  famine  in  its  utmost  rage ; 

Say  thou  what  perils  I  am  first  to  shun,  520 

What  course  for  safe  deliverance  must  be  run  ?" 

Then  Helenus  (the  accustom'd  Victims  slain) 
Invoked  the  Gods  their  favour  to  obtain. 
This  done,  he  loos'd  the  fillets  from  his  head,  \ 
And  took  my  hand ;  and,  while  a  holy  dread  J  525 

Possess'd  me,  onward  to  the  Temple  led,         J 
Thy  Temple,  Phoebus! — from  his  lip  then  flow'd 
Communications  "of  the  inspiring  God. — 
"No  common  auspices  (this  truth  is  plain)     \ 

Conduct  thee,  Son  of  Venus !  o'er  the  Main ;  J  530 

The  high  behests  of  Jove  this  course  ordain  J 
But,  that  with  safer  voyage  thou  may'st  reach 
The  Ausonian  harbour,  I  will  clothe  in  speech 
Some  portion  of  the  future ;  Fate  hath  hung 

Clouds  o'er  the  rest,  or  Juno  binds  my  tongue.  535 

And  first,  that  Italy,  whose  coasts  appear, 
To  thy  too  confident  belief,  so  near, 
With  havens  open  for  thy  sails,  a  wide 
And  weary  distance  doth  from  thee  divide. 
501  Soon  in  a  spacious  Portico  MS. 


Trinacrian  waves  shall  bend  the  pliant  oar ;  54° 

Thou,  thro'  Ausonian  gulphs,  a  passage  must  explore, 

Trace  the  Circean  Isle,  the  infernal  Pool, 

Before  thy  City  rise  for  stedfast  rule. 

Now  mark  these  Signs,  and  store  them  in  thy  mind ;  \ 

When,  anxiously  reflecting,  thou  shalt  find  J  545 

A  bulky  Female  of  the  bristly  Kind  J 

On  a  sequester 'd  river's  margin  laid, 

Where  Ilex  branches  do  the  ground  o'ershade, 

With  thirty  young  ones  couch'd  in  that  Recess, 

White  as  the  pure  white  Dam  whose  teats  they  press,  550 

There  found  thy  City ; — on  that  soil  shall  close 

All  thy  solicitudes,  in  fixed  repose. 

Nor  dread  Celaeno's  threat,  the  Fates  shall  clear 

The  way,  and  at  thy  call  Apollo  interfere. 

But  shun  those  Lands  where  our  Ionian  sea  555 

Washes  the  nearest  shores  of  Italy. 

On  all  the  coasts  malignant  Greeks  abide ; 

Narycian  Locrians  there  a  Town  have  fortified ; 

Idomeneus  of  Crete  hath  compassed  round 

With  soldiery  the  Sallentinian  ground ;  560 

There,  when  Thessalian  Philoctetes  chose 

His  resting-place,  the  small  Petilia  rose. 

And  when,  that  sea  past  over,  thou  shalt  stand 

Before  the  Altars,  kindled  on  the  strand, 

While  to  the  Gods  are  offer'd  up  thy  vows,  565 

Then  in  a  purple  veil  enwrap  thy  brows, 

And  sacrifice  thus  cover 'd,  lest  the  sight 

Of  any  hostile  face  disturb  the  rite. 

Be  this  observance  kept  by  thee  and  thine, 

And  this  to  late  posterity  consign!  570 

But  when  by  favouring  breezes  wafted  o'er 

Thy  Fleet  approaches  the  Sicilian  shore, 

And  dense  Pelorus  gradually  throws 

Its  barriers  open  to  invite  thy  prows, 

That  passage  shunn'd,  thy  course  in  safety  keep  575 

By  steering  to  the  left,  with  ample  sweep. 

"  'Tis  said  when  heaving  Earth  of  yore  was  rent 
This  ground  forsook  the  Hesperian  Continent ; 
Nor  doubt,  that  power  to  work  such  change  might  lie 
Within  the  grasp  of  dark  Antiquity.  580 

543  stedfast]  settled  MS.  548  On  ground  which  Ilex  branches 

overshade  MS.  552  Thy  cares  and  labours  in  assured  repose  MS. 

554  .  .  .  and  Phoebus  at  thy  call  appear  MS.  566  Then  cast  a  purple 

amice  o'er  MS. 

350  APPENDIX   A 

Then  flow'd  the  sea  between,  and,  where  the  force 

Of  roaring  waves  establish'd  the  divorce, 

Still,  thro'  the  Straits,  the  narrow  waters  boil, 

Dissevering  Town  from  Town,  and  soil  from  soil. 

Upon  the  right  the  dogs  of  Scylla  fret ;  585 

The  left  by  fell  Charybdis  is  beset ; 

Thrice  tow'rds  the  bottom  of  a  vast  abyss 

Down,  headlong  down  the  liquid  precipice 

She  sucks  the  whirling  billows,  and,  as  oft, 

Ejecting,  sends  them  into  air  aloft.  59<> 

But  Scylla,  pent  within  her  Cavern  blind, 

Thrusts  forth  a  visage  of  our  human  kind, 

And  draws  the  Ship  on  rocks ;  She,  fair  in  show, 

A  woman  to  the  waist,  is  foul  below ; 

A  huge  Sea-Beast — with  Dolphin  tails,  and  bound  595 

With  water  Wolves  and  Dogs  her  middle  round ! 

But  Thou  against  this  jeopardy  provide 

Doubling  Pachynus  with  a  circuit  wide ; 

Thus  shapeless  Scylla  may  be  left  unseen, 

Unheard  the  yelling  of  the  brood  marine.  600 

But,  above  all  if  Phoebus  I  revere 

Not  unenlighten'd,  an  authentic  Seer, 

Then,  Goddess -born,  (on  this  could  I  enlarge 

Repeating  oft  and  oft  the  solemn  charge) 

Adore  imperial  Juno,  freely  wait  \  605 

With  gifts  on  Juno's  Altar,  supplicate         > 

Her  potent  favour,  and  subdue  her  hate ;  j 

So  shalt  thou  seek,  a  Conqueror  at  last, 

The  Italian  shore,  Trinacrian  dangers  past ! 

Arrived  at  Cumae  and  the  sacred  floods  610 

Of  black  Avernus  resonant  with  woods, 

Thou  shalt  behold  the  Sybil  where  She  sits       \ 

Within  her  cave,*  rapt  in  extatic  fits,  | 

And  words  and  characters  to  leaves  commits.  J 

The  prophecies  which  on  those  leaves  the  Maid  6x5 

Inscribes,  are  by  her  hands  in  order  laid 

'Mid  the  secluded  Cavern,  where  they  fill 

Their  several  places,  undisturb'd  and  still. 

But  if  a  light  wind  entering  thro'  the  door 

Scatter  the  thin  leaves  on  the  rocky  floor,  620 

She  to  replace  her  prophecies  will  use 

No  diligence ;  all  flutter  where  they  chuse, 

In  hopeless  disconnection  loose  and  wild ; 

608-9  So  shalt  thou  reach  (Sicilian  limits  past) 

The  Italian  shore,  a  conqueror  at  last.  MS.  D.  W. 

APPENDIX   A  351 

And  they,  who  sought  for  knowledge,  thus  beguiTd 

Of  her  predictions,  from  the  cave  depart,  625 

And  quit  the  Sybil  with  a  murmuring  heart. 

But  thou,  albeit  ill-dispos'd  to  wait, 

And  prizing  moments  at  their  highest  rate, 

Tho*  Followers  chide,  and  ever  and  anon 

The  flattering  winds  invite  thee  to  be  gone,  630 

Beg  of  the  moody  Prophetess  to  break 

The  silent  air,  and  for  thy  guidance  speak. 

She  will  disclose  the  features  of  thy  doom, 

The  Italian  Nations,  and  the  Wars  to  come ; 

How  to  escape  from  hardships,  or  endure,  \  635 

And  make  a  happy  termination  sure ;  > 

Enough — chains  bind  the  rest,  or  clouds  obscure.  J 

Go  then,  nor  in  thy  glorious  progress  halt, 

But  to  the  stars  the  Trojan  name  exalt!" 

So  spake  the  friendly  Seer,  from  hallow'd  lips,  640 

Then  orders  sumptuous  presents  to  the  Ships ; 
Smooth  ivory,  massy  gold,  with  ponderous  store 
Of  vasos  fashion 'd  from  the  paler  ore ; 
And  Dodonaean  Cauldrons,  nor  withholds 

The  golden  halbork,  knit  in  triple  folds,  645 

That  Neoptolemus  erewhile  had  worn ; 
Nor  his  resplendent  crest  which  waving  plumes  adorn. 
Rich  offerings  also  grace  my  Father's  hands ; 
Horses  he  adds  with  Equerries,  and  Bands 

Of  Bowers,  and  supply  of  Arms  commands.  650 

— Meanwhile  Anchisos  bids  the  Fleet  unbind 
Its  sails  for  instant  seizure  of  the  wind. 
The  Interpreter  of  Phoebus  then  address'd 
This  gracious  farewell  to  his  ancient  Guest ; 

"Anchises !  to  celestial  honors  led,  655 

Beloved  of  Venus,  whom  she  deign'd  to  wed, 
Care  of  the  Gods,  twice  snatch'd  from  Ilium  lost, 
Now  for  Ausonia  be  these  waters  cross'd! 
Yet  must  thou  only  glide  along  the  shores 

To  which  I  point ;  far  lies  the  Land  from  ours  660 

Whither  Apollo's  voice  directs  your  powers: 
Go,  happy  Parent  of  a  pious  Son, 
No  more — I  baulk  the  winds  that  press  thee  on." 

638-9  Go  then ;  and  high  as  heaven's  ethereal  vault 

The  Trojan  name  by  glorious  deeds  exalt.  MS.  D.  W. 
641       ...  orders  Presents  to  our  parting  Ships.  MS,  D.  W.  659  Yet 

only  hope  to  MS.  D.  W. 


Nor  less  Andromache,  disturb  'd  in  heart 

That  parting  now,  we  must  for  ever  part,  665 

Embroider'd  Vests  of  golden  thread  bestows ; 

A  Phrygian  Tunic  o'er  Ascanius  throws; 

And  studious  that  her  bounty  may  become 

The  occasion,  adds  rich  labours  of  the  loom ; 

"Dear  Child,"  she  said,  "these  also,  to  be  kept  670 

As  the  memorials  of  my  hand,  accept ! 

Last  gifts  of  Hector's  Consort,  let  them  prove 

To  thee  the  symbols  of  enduring  love ; 

Take  what  Andromache  at  parting  gives, 

Fair  Boy! — sole  Image  that  for  me  survives  675 

Of  my  Astyanax, — in  whom  his  face, 

His  eyes  are  seen,  his  very  hands  I  trace ; 

And  now,  but  for  obstruction  from  the  tomb, 

His  years  had  open'd  into  kindred  bloom." 

To  these,  while  gushing  tears  bedew'd  my  cheek,  680 

Thus  in  the  farewell  moment  did  I  speak : 

"Live  happy  Ye,  whose  race  of  fortune  run       \ 

Permits  such  life ;  from  trials  undergone  | 

We  to  the  like  are  call'd,  by  you  is  quiet  won.  J 

No  seas  have  Ye  to  measure,  nor  on  you  \  685 

Is  it  impos'd  Ausonia  to  pursue,  J 

And  search  for  fields  still  flying  from  the  view.  J 

Lo  Xanthus  here  in  miniature ! — there  stands 

A  second  Troy,  the  labour  of  your  hands, 

With  happier  auspices — in  less  degree  690 

Exposed,  I  trust,  to  Grecian  enmity. 

If  Tiber  e'er  receive  me,  and  the  sod 

Of  Tiber's  meadows  by  these  feet  be  trod, 

If  e'er  I  see  our  promis'd  City  rise, 

These  neighbouring  Nations  bound  by  ancient  ties  695 

Hesperian  and  Epirian,  whose  blood  came 

From  DardamiSf  whose  lot  hath  been  the  same, 

Shall  make  one  Troy  in  spirit.  May  that  care 

To  our  Descendants  pass  from  heir  to  heir!" 

We  coast  the  high  Ceraunia,  whence  is  found  700 

The  shortest  transit  to  Italian  ground ; 

678-9  And  his  unfolding  youth  with  thine  kept  pace  MS.  D.  W. 
683-4  one  peril  if  we  shun 

*Tis  but  to  meet  a  worse:  by  you  is  Quiet  won.  MS.  D.  W. 
688-9  Before  your  sight  a  mimic  Xanthus  flows ; 

By  your  own  hands  the  Troy  that  guards  you  rose  MS.  D.  W. 
694-5  If  e'er  our  destined  City  I  behold, 

Then  neighbouring  Towns,  and  Tribes  akin  of  old  MS.  D.  W. 


Meanwhile  the  sun  went  down,  and  shadows  spread 

O'er  every  mountain  dark'ned  to  its  head. 

Tired  of  their  oars  the  Men  no  sooner  reach 

Earth's  wish'd-for  bosom  than  their  limbs  they  stretch  705 

On  the  dry  margin  of  the  murmuring  Deep, 

Where  weariness  is  lost  in  timely  sleep. 

Ere  Night,  whose  Car  the  Hours  had  yok'd  and  rein'd, 

Black  Night,  the  middle  of  her  orbit  gain'd, 

Up  from  his  couch  did  Palinurus  rise,  ^  710 

Looks  to  the  wind  for  what  it  signifies,  1 

And  to  each  breath  of  air  a  watchful  ear  applies.  J 

Next  all  the  Stars  gliding  thro'  silent  Heaven 

The  Bears,  Arcturus,  and  the  cluster'd  Seven, 

Are  noted, — and  his  ranging  eyes  behold  715 

Magnificent  Orion  arm'd  in  gold. 

When  he  perceives  that  all  things  low  and  high 

Unite  to  promise  fix'd  serenity, 

He  sends  the  summons  forth ;  our  Camp  we  raise, — 

Are  gone, — and  every  Ship  her  broadest  wings  displays.  720 

Now,  when  Aurora  redden  *d  in  a  sky  } 

From  which  the  Stars  had  vanish'd,  we  descry    I 
The  low  faint  hills  of  distant  Italy.  J 

*  Italia!"  shouts  Achates;  round  and  round  \ 

"Italia"  flies  with  gratulant  rebound,  >  7*5 

From  all  who  see  the  coast,  or  hear  the  happy  sound.  J 
Not  slow  is  Sire  Anchises  to  entwine 
With  wreaths  a  goblet,  which  he  fill'd  with  wine, 
Then,  on  the  Stern  he  took  his  lofty  stand, 

And  cried,  "Ye  Deities  of  sea  and  land  730 

Thro'  whom  the  Storms  are  govern'd,  speed  our  way 
By  breezes  docile  to  your  kindliest  sway!'* 
— With  freshening  impulse  breathe  the  wish'd-for  gales, 
And,  as  the  Ships  press  on  with  greedy  sails, 

Opens  the  Port ;  and,  peering  into  sight,  735 

Minerva's  Temple  tops  a  craggy  height. 
The  Sails  are  furl'd  by  many  a  busy  hand ; 
The  veering  prows  are  pointed  to  the  Strand. 
Curved  into  semblance  of  a  bow,  the  Haven 
Looks  to  the  East ;  but  not  a  wave  thence  driven  740 

704-7  Eased  of  the  oar,  upon  earth's  wished-for  breast 

We  seek  refreshment  and  prepare  for  rest  MS.  D.  W. 
We  press  the  bosom  of  the  wished  for  land ; 
And,  as  we  lay  dispersed  along  the  Strand, 
Our  bodies  we  refresh  and  dewy  sleep 
Fell  upon  weary  limbs  beside  the  lulling  deep.     MS.  W.W. 
917.17  IV  A  a 


Disturbs  its  peacefulness ;  their  foamy  spray 

Breaks  upon  jutting  rocks  that  fence  the  Bay. 

Two  towering  cliffs  extend  with  gradual  fall 

Their  arms  into  the  Sea,  and  frame  a  wall 

In  whose  embrace  the  harbour  hidden  lies ;     \  745 

And,  as  its  shelter  deepens  on  our  eyes,  1 

Back  from  the  shore  Minerva's  Temple  flies.  J 

Four  snow-white  Horses,  grazing  the  wide  fields, 
Are  the  first  omen  which  OUT  landing  yields ; 

Then  Sire  Anchises — "War  thy  tokens  bear  750 

O  Hospitable  land !   The  Horse  is  arm'd  for  war ; 
War  do  these  menace,  but  as  Steed  with  Steed     \ 
Oft  joins  in  friendly  yoke,  the  sight  may  breed     > 
Fair  hope  that  peace  and  concord  will  succeed."  J 
To  Pollas  then  in  clanking  armour  mail'd,  ^  755 

Who  hatt'd  us  first,  exulting  to  be  hail'd,  1 

Prayers  we  address — with  Phrygian  amice  veil'd ;  J 
And,  as  by  Helenus  enjoin'd,  the  fire 
On  Juno's  Altar  fumes — to  Juno  vows  aspire. 
When  we  had  ceas'd  this  service  to  present  760 

That  instant,  seaward  are  our  Sail -yards  bent, 
And  we  forsake  the  Shore — with  cautious  dread 
Of  ground  by  Native  Grecians  tenanted. 

The  Bay  is  quickly  reach'd  that  draws  its  name  \ 
From  proud  Tarentum,  proud  to  share  the  fame       )  765 

Of  Hercules  tho'  by  a  dubious  claim:  J 

Right  opposite  we  ken  the  Structure  holy 
Of  the  Lacinian  Goddess  rising  slowly ; 
Next  the  Caulonian  Citadel  appear 'd 

And  the  Scylacian  bay  for  Shipwrecks  fear'd ;  770 

Lo,  as  along  the  open  Main  we  float, 
Mount  Etna,  yet  far  off !  and  far  remote 
Groans  of  the  Sea  we  hear ; — deep  groans  and  strokes 
Of  angry  billows  beating  upon  rocks ; 

And  hoarse  surf -clamours, — while  the  flood  throws  up  775 

Sands  from  the  depths  of  its  unsettled  cup. 
My  Sire  exclaim'd,  * 'Companions,  we  are  caught 
By  fell  Charybdis, — flee  as  ye  were  taught ; 
These,  doubtless,  are  the  rocks,  the  dangerous  shores 
Which  Helenus  denounc'd — away — with  straining  oars."  780 

Quick,  to  the  left  the  Master  Galley  veers 
With  roaring  prow,  as  Palinurus  steers  ; 
And  for  the  left  the  bands  of  Rowers  strive, 
While  every  help  is  caught  that  winds  can  give. 


The  whirlpool's  dizzy  altitudes  we  scale,  785 

For  ghastly  sinking  when  the  waters  fail. 

The  hollow  rocks  thrice  gave  a  fearful  cry ;  \ 

Three  times  we  saw  the  clashing  waves  fling  high  > 

Their  foam  dispers'd  along  a  drizzling  sky.  J 

The  flagging  wind  forsook  us  with  the  sun,  79° 

And  to  Cyclopian  shores  a  darkling  course  we  run. 

The  Port,  which  now  we  chance  to  enter,  lies 
By  winds  unruffl'd  tho'  of  ample  size ; 
But  all  too  near  is  Etna,  thundering  loud ; 

And  ofttimes  casting  up  a  pitchy  cloud  795 

Of  smoke — in  whirling  convolutions  driven, 
With  weight  of  hoary  ashes,  high  as  heaven, 
And  globes  of  flame ;  and  sometimes  he  gives  vent 
To  rocky  fragments,  from  his  entrails  rent ; 

And  hurls  out  melting  substances — that  fly  800 

In  thick  assemblage,  and  confound  the  sky ; 
While  groans  and  lamentations  burthensome 
Tell  to  the  air  from  what  a  depth  they  come. 
The  enormous  Mass  of  Etna,  so  'tis  said, 

On  lightening-scorch'd  Enceladus  was  laid ;  805 

And  ever  pressing  on  the  Giant's  frame, 
Breathes  out,  from  fractur'd  chimneys,  fitful  flame, 
And,  often  as  he  turns  his  weary  side  \ 

Murmuring  Trinacria  trembles  far  and  wide,  J 

While  wreaths  of  smoke  ascend  and  all  the  welkin  hide.  J  810 

We,  thro'  the  night,  enwrapp'd  in  woods  obscure, 
The  shock  of  those  dire  prodigies  endure, 
Nor  could  distinguish  whence  might  come  the  sound ; 
For  all  the  stars  to  ether's  utmost  bound 

Were  hidden  or  bedimm'd,  and  Night  withheld  815 

The  Moon,  in  mist  and  lowering  fogs  conceal'd. 

[Desunt  11.  688-706] 

Those  left,  we  harbour'd  on  the  joyless  coast 
Of  Drepanum,  here  harass'd  long  and  toss'd, 
And  here  my  Sire  Anchises  did  I  lose, 

Help  in  my  cares,  and  solace  of  my  woes.  820 

Here,  O  best  Father !  best  beloved  and  best 
Didst  thou  desert  me  when  I  needed  rest, 
Thou,  from  so  many  perils  snatch'd  in  vain : 
Not  Helenus,  though  much  in  doleful  strain 

He  prophesied,  this  sorrow  did  unfold,  825 

Not  dire  Celaeno  this  distress  foretold. 
This  trouble  was  my  last ;  Celestial  Powers 
O  Queen,  have  brought  me  to  your  friendly  shores." 

356  APPENDIX   A 

— Sole  speaker,  thus  ^Bneas  did  relate 

To  a  hush'd  audience  the  decrees  of  Fate,  830 

His  wandering  course  remeasur'd,  till  the  close 
Now  reach 'd,  in  silence  here  he  found  repose. 

IV.    688-92 

SHE  who  to  lift  her  heavy  eyes  had  tried 
Faints  while  the  deep  wound  gurgles  at  her  side 
Thrice  on  her  elbow  propp'd  she  strove  to  uphold 
Her  frame — thrice  back  upon  the  couch  was  roll'd, 
Then  with  a  wandering  eye  in  heaven's  blue  round 
She  sought  the  light  and  groaned  when  she  had  found. 

VIII.   337-66 

THIS  scarcely  utter'd  they  advance,  and  straight 
He  shews  the  Altar  and  Carmental  Gate, 
Which  (such  the  record)  by  its  Roman  name 
Preserves  the  nymph  Carmenta's  ancient  fame, 
Who  first  the  glories  of  the  Trojan  line  5 

Predicted,  and  the  noble  Pallantine. 
Next  points  he  out  an  ample  sylvan  shade 
Which  Romulus  a  fit  asylum  made, 
Turns  thence,  and  bids  ^Eneas  fix  his  eyes  \ 

Where  under  a  chill  rock  Lupercal  lies  1  10 

Named  from  Lycaean  Pan,  in  old  Arcadian  guise.  J 
Nor  left  he  unobserv'd  the  neighbouring  wood 
Of  sacred  Argiletum,  stained  with  blood. 
There  Argos  fell,  his  guest — the  story  told 

To  the  Tarpeian  Rock  their  way  they  hold  15 

And  to  the  Capitol  now  bright  with  gold, — 
In  those  far-distant  times  a  spot  forlorn 
With  brambles  choked  and  rough  with  savage  thorn. 
Even  then  an  influence  of  religious  awe 

The  rustics  felt,  subdued  by  what  they  saw,  ao 

The  local  spirit  creeping  thro'  their  blood, 
Even  then  they  fear'd  the  rocks,  they  trembled  at  the  wood. 
"This  grove  (said  he)  this  leaf-crown'd  hill — some  God 
How  nam'd  we  know  not,  takes  for  his  abode, 
The  Arcadians  think  that  Jove  himself  aloft  35 

Hath  here  declared  his  presence  oft  and  oft, 
Shaking  his  lurid  JEgis  in  their  sight 
And  covering  with  fierce  clouds  the  stormy  height. 
Here  also  see  two  mouldering  towns  that  lie 

Mournful  remains  of  buried  ancestry ;  30 

That  Citadel  did  father  Janus  frame, 
And  Saturn  this,  each  bears  the  Founder's  name. 


Conversing  thus  their  onward  course  they  bent 
To  poor  Evander's  humble  tenement ; 

Herds  range  the  Roman  Forum ;  in  the  street  35 

Of  proud  Carinae  bellowing  herds  they  meet ; 
When  they  had  reach'd  the  house,  he  said  "This  gate 
Conquering  Alcides  enter'd,  his  plain  state 
This  palace  lodg'd ;  O  guest,  like  him  forbear 
To  frown  on  scanty  means  and  homely  fare ;  40 

Dare  riches  to  despise ;  with  aim  as  high 
Mount  thou,  and  train  thyself  for  Deity. 

This  said,  thro'  that  low  door  he  leads  his  guest, 

The  great  ^Eneas,  to  a  couch  of  rest. 

There  propp'd  he  lay  on  withered  leaves,  o'erspread  45 

With  a  bear's  skin  in  Libyan  desarts  bred. 

GeorgicIV.  611-15 

Even  so  bewails,  the  Poplar  groves  among, 
Sad  Philomela  her  evanished  young ; 
Whom  the  harsh  Rustic  from  the  nest  hath  torn, 
An  unfledged  brood ;  but  on  the  bough  forlorn  50 

She  sits,  in  mournful  darkness  all  night  long ; 
Renews,  and  still  renews,  her  doleful  song, 
And  fills  the  leafy  grove,  complaining  of  her  wrong. 



(Poems  to  which  no  date  of  first  printing  is  prefixed  are  here  given  for 

the  first  time) 


[Composed  1798  ?] 

AWAY,  away,  it  is  the  air 

That  stirs  among  the  withered  leaves ; 

Away,  away,  it  is  not  there, 

Go,  hunt  among  the  harvest  sheaves. 

There  is  a  bed  in  shape  as  plain  5 

As  from  a  hare  or  lion's  lair 

It  is  the  bed  where  we  have  lain 

In  anguish  and  despair. 

Away,  and  take  the  eagle's  eye, 

The  tyger's  smell,  10 

I.  6  lair]  lare  MS. 


Ears  that  can  hear  the  agonies 

And  murmurings  of  hell ; 

And  when  you  there  have  stood 

By  that  same  bed  of  pain, 

The  groans  are  gone,  the  tears  remain.  15 

Then  tell  me  if  the  thing  be  clear, 

The  difference  betwixt  a  tear 

Of  water  and  of  blood. 



From  The  Prologue. 
[Translated  December,  1801.] 
A  MANCIPLE  there  was,  one  of  a  Temple 
Of  whom  all  caterers  might  take  example 
.  Wisely  to  purchase  stores,  whatever  the  amount, 
Whether  he  paid,  or  took  them  on  account. 
So  well  on  every  bargain  did  he  wait,  5 

He  was  beforehand  aye  in  good  estate. 
Now  is  not  that  of  God  a  full  fair  grace 
That  one  man's  natural  sense  should  so  surpass 
The  wisdom  of  a  heap  of  learned  men  ? 

Of  masters  he  had  more  than  three  times  ten  10 

That  were  in  law  expert  and  curious, 
Of  which  there  was  a  dozen  in  that  house 
Fit  to  be  steward  over  land  and  rent 
For  any  Lord  in  England,  competent 

Each  one  to  make  him  live  upon  his  own  15 

In  debtless  honour,  were  his  wits  not  flown ; 
Or  sparely  live,  even  to  his  heart's  desire ; 
Men  who  would  give  good  help  to  a  whole  Shire 
In  every  urgent  case  that  might  befal, 
Yet  could  this  Manciple  outwit  them  all.  20 


When  Phoebus  took  delight  on  earth  to  dwell 
Among  mankind,  as  ancient  stories  tell, 
He  was  the  blithest  bachelor,  I  trow, 
Of  all  this  world,  and  the  best  archer  too. 
He  slew  the  serpent  Python  as  he  lay  5 

Sleeping  against  the  sun  upon  a  day, 

II.  8  mother- wit  corr.  to  text  MS.       13  All  worthy  to  be  stewards  corr.  to 
text    MS. 


1-2  When  Phoebus  here  below  on  earth  did  dwell 
As  ancient  histories  to  us  do  tell  MS.  1 


And  many  another  noble  worthy  deed 

Wrought  with  his  bow  as  men  the  same  may  read. 

He  played,  all  music  played  on  earthly  ground, 

And  'twas  a  melody  to  hear  the  sound  10 

Of  his  clear  voice,  so  sweetly  would  he  sing. 

Certes  Amphion,  that  old  Theban  king 

Who  walTd  a  city  with  his  minstrelsy, 

Was  never  heard  to  sing  so  sweet  as  he. 

Therewith  this  Phoebus  was  the  seemliest  man  15 

That  is  or  hath  been  since  the  world  began. 

His  features  to  describe  I  need  not  strive ; 

For  in  this  world  is  none  so  fair  alive. 

He  was  moreover,  full  of  gentleness, 

Of  honour  and  of  perfect  worthiness.  20 

This  Phoebus  flower  in  forest  and  in  court, 
This  comely  Bachelor  for  his  disport 
And  eke  in  token  of  his  victory  earned 
Of  Python,  as  is  from  the  story  learned, 
Was  wont  to  carry  in  his  hand  a  bow.  25 

Now  had  this  Phoebus  in  his  house  a  Crow 
Which  in  a  cage  he  fostered  many  a  day 
And  taught  to  speak  as  men  will  teach  a  jay. 
White  was  this  Crow  as  is  a  snow-white  Swan, 
And  counterfeit  the  speech  of  every  man  30 

He  could,  when  he  had  mind  to  tell  a  tale ; 
Besides,  in  all  the  world  no  Nightingale 
Could  ring  out  of  his  heart  so  blithe  a  peal ; 
No,  not  a  hundred  thousandth  part  as  well. 

Now  had  this  Phoebus  in  his  house  a  Wife  35 

Whom  he  loved  better  than  he  loved  his  life ; 
And,  night  and  day,  he  strove  with  diligence 
To  please  her,  and  to  do  her  reverence, 
Save  only,  for  'tis  truth,  the  noble  Elf 

Was  jealous,  and  would  keep  her  to  himself.  40 

For  he  was  loth  a  laughing  stock  to  be, 
And  so  is  every  wight  in  like  degree ; 
But  all  for  nought,  for  it  availeth  nought, 
A  good  Wife  that  is  pure  in  deed  and  thought 
Should  not  be  kept  in  watch  and  ward, — and,  do  45 

The  best  you  may,  you  cannot  keep  a  Shrew. 
It  will  not  be — vain  labour  is  it  wholly ; 
Lordings,  this  hold  I  for  an  arrant  folly 

36  And  her  he  loved  better  than  his  life  MS.  1  42  in  like  degree] 

as  loth  as  he  MS.  1 


Labour  to  waste  in  custody  of  wives ; 

And  so  old  Clerks  have  written  in  their  lives.  50 

But  to  my  purpose  as  I  first  began. 
This  worthy  Phoebus  doeth  all  he  can 
To  please  her,  weening  that  through  such  delight 
And  of  his  government  and  manhood's  right 
No  man  should  ever  put  him  from  her  grace,  55 

But  Man's  best  plans,  God  knoweth,  in  no  case 
Shall  compass  to  constrain  a  thing  which  nature 
Hath  naturally  implanted  in  a  creature. 

Take  any  bird  and  put  it  in  a  cage 

And  wait  upon  this  bird  as  nurse  or  page  60 

To  feed  it  tenderly  with  meat  and  drink 
And  every  dainty  whereof  thou  canst  think, 
And  also  keep  it  cleanly  as  thou  may ; 
Altho'  the  cage  of  gold  be  never  so  gay 
Yet  hath  the  Bird  by  twenty  thousand  fold  65 

Rather  in  forest  that  is  wild  and  cold 
Go  feed  on  worms  and  such  like  wretchedness, 
For  ever  will  this  Bird  do  more  or  less 
To  escape  out  of  his  cage  whene'er  he  may ; 
His  liberty  the  Bird  desireth  aye.  70 

Go  take  a  Cat  and  nourish  her  with  milk 
And  tender  flesh,  and  make  her  couch  of  silk, 
And  let  her  see  a  mouse  go  by  the  wall, 
Anon  she  waiveth  milk  and  flesh  and  all 
And  every  dainty  which  is  in  the  house,  75 

Such  appetite  hath  she  to  eat  the  mouse. 
Behold  the  domination  here  of  kind, 
Appetite  drives  discretion  from  her  mind. 

A  she-wolf  also  in  her  kind  is  base ; 

Meets  she  the  sorriest  wolf  in  field  or  chase  80 

Him  will  "she  take — what  matters  his  estate 
In  time  when  she  hath  liking  to  a  mate  ? 

Examples  all  for  men  that  are  untrue. 
With  women  I  have  nothing  now  to  do : 
For  men  have  still  a  wayward  appetite  85 

With  lower  things  to  seek  for  their  delight 

54  of]  for  MS.  1  56  But  no  man  in  good  truth  in  any  case  MS.  1 

60  And  to  this  little  bird  thyself  engage  MS.  1  66  Lever  MS.  1 

77-8  Lo !  here  the  domination  of  her  kind, 

And  appetite  drives  judgement  from  her  mind.  MS.  1 
85  wayward]  liquorish  corr.  to  froward  MS.  1  86  seek  for]  accom- 

plish MS.  1 


Than  with  their  wives,  albeit  women  fair 

Never  so  true,  never  so  debonnair. 

All  flesh  is  so  newfangled,  plague  upon't 

That  are  we  pleased  with  aught  on  whose  clear  front        90 

Virtue  is  stampt,  'tis  but  for  a  brief  while. 

This  Phoebus,  he  that  thought  upon  no  guile, 
Deceived  was  for  all  his  jollity  ; 
For  under  him  another  one  had  she, 

One  of  small  note  and  little  thought  upon,  95 

Nought  worth  to  Phoebus  in  comparison. 
The  more  harm  is,  it  happeneth  often  so 
Of  which  there  cometh  mickle  harm  and  woe. 

And  so  befel  as  soon  as  Phoebus  went 

From  home,  his  wife  hath  for  her  lemman  sent,  100 

Her  Lemman,  certes  that's  a  knavish  speech ; 
Forgive  it  me  and  that  I  you  beseech. 

Plato  the  wise  hath  said,  as  ye  may  read, 
The  word  must  needs  be  suited  to  the  deed ; 
No  doubtful  meanings  in  a  tale  should  lurk,  105 

The  word  must  aye  be  cousin  to  the  work ; 
I  am  a  bold  blunt  man,  I  speak  out  plain 
There  is  no  difference  truly,  not  a  grain, 
Between  a  wife  that  is  of  high  degree 

(If  of  her  body  she  dishonest  be)  no 

And  every  low -born  wench  no  more  than  this 
(If  it  so  be  that  both  have  done  amiss) 
That,  as  the  gentle  is  in  state  above, 
She  shall  be  called  his  Lady  and  his  Love 
And  that  the  other  a  poor  woman  is  115 

She  shall  be  called  his  harlot  and  his  miss. 
And  yet,  in  very  truth,  mine  own  dear  brother, 
Men  lay  as  low  that  one  as  lieth  that  other. 
Right  so  betwixt  a  haughty  tyrant  chief 
And  a  rough  outlaw  or  an  errant  thief,  120 

90-2  That  when  we  might  be  happy,  then  we  won't, 
(That  with  plain  virtue  and  her  open  front 
We  can  take  pleasure  only  a  short  while  deleted) 
But  to  my  tale  which  I  have  left  a  while. 
This  worthy  Phoebus,  thinking  of  no  guile  MS.  1 
94  one]  choice  MS.  1 
99—100  .  .  .  when  Phoebus  was  from  home 

His  Wife  anon  hath  bid  her  Lemman  come  MS.  1 
105-6  Tell  a  thing  rightly,  Englishman  or  Turk, 

In  things  told  rightly  no  vague  meanings  lurk  MS.  1 
107  bold  blunt]  boistrous  MS.  1  117  in  God's  good  truth  MS.  1 

119  ...  an  outlaw,  Robber  chief, 

Untitled  tyrant,  and  an  errant  thief  MS.  1 


The  same  I  say,  no  difference  I  hold, 

(To  Alexander  was  this  sentence  told) 

But,  for  the  Tyrant  is  of  greater  might 

By  force  of  multitudes  to  slay  downright 

And  burn  both  house  and  home,  and  make  all  plain,        125 

Lo !  therefore  Captain  is  he  called ;  again 

Since  the  other  heads  a  scanty  company 

And  may  not  do  so  great  a  harm  as  he, 

Or  lay  upon  the  land  such  heavy  grief 

Men  christen  him  an  Outlaw  or  a  Thief.  130 

But  I'm  no  man  of  texts  and  instances, 
Therefore  I  will  not  give  you  much  of  these 
But  with  my  tale  go  on  as  I  was  bent. 

When  Phoebus'  wife  had  for  her  lemman  sent 
In  their  loose  dalliance  they  anon  engage ;  135 

This  white  Crow,  that  hung  alway  in  the  cage, 
Beheld  the  shame,  and  did  not  say  one  word ; 
But  soon  as  home  was  come  Phoebus,  the  Lord, 
The  Crow  sang  Cuckow,  Cuckow,  Cuckow,  "How 
What!  Bird",  quoth  Phoebus,  "what  song  singst  thou  now, 
Wert  thou  not  wont  to  sing  as  did  rejoice  14* 

My  inmost  heart,  so  merrily  thy  voice 
Greeted  my  ear,  alas,  what  song  is  this  ?" 
"So  help  me  Gods,  I  do  not  ^ing  amiss, 
Phoebus,"  quoth  he,  "  for  all  thy  worthiness,  145 

For  all  thy  beauty  and  all  thy  gentleness, 
For  all  thy  song  and  all  thy  minstrelsy, 
For  all  thy  waiting,  hoodwinked  is  thine  eye 
By  one  we  know  not  whom,  we  know  not  what, 
A  man  to  thee  no  better  than  a  gnat,  150 

For  I  full  plainly  as  I  hope  for  life 
Saw  him  in  guilty  converse  with  thy  wife." 

What  would  you  more,  the  Crow  when  he  him  told 
By  serious  tokens  and  words  stout  and  bold 
How  that  his  wife  had  played  a  wanton  game  155 

To  his  abasement,  and  exceeding  shame, 

133—4  I  to  my  tale  will  go  as  I  began. 

When  Phoebus'  wife  had  sent  for  her  Lemman  MS.  1 
135  They  took  their  fill  of  love  and  lover's  rage    MS.  1  corr.  to  To  love's 
delights  themselves  they  did  engage 
137  Beheld  their  work  MS.  1 
141-3  Whilom  thou  wont  so  merrily  to  sing 

That  to  my  heart  it  should  great  gladness  bring 

To  hear  thy  voice  MS.  1 

144  By  all  the  Saints  MS.  1  156  Him  to  abase,  and  cover  with  great 

shame  MS.  1 


And  told  him  oft  he  saw  it  with  his  eyes, 

Then  Phoebus  turned  away  in  woeful  guise 

Him  thought  his  heart  would  burst  in  two  with  sorrow, 

His  bow  he  bent,  and  set  therein  an  arrow,  160 

And  in  his  anger  he  his  wife  did  slay ; 

This  is  the  effect,  there  is  no  more  to  say. 

For  grief  of  which  he  brake  his  minstrelsy 

Both  lute  and  harp,  guitar  and  psaltery, 

And  also  brake  his  arrows  and  his  bow  165 

And  after  that  thus  spake  he  to  the  Crow. 

"Thou  Traitor!  with  thy  scorpion  tongue,"  quoth  he, 
"To  my  confusion  am  I  brought  by  thee. 
Why  was  I  born,  why  have  I  yet  a  life 

O  wife,  O  gem  of  pleasure,  O  dear  wife,  170 

That  wert  to  me  so  stedfast  and  so  true, 
Now  dead  thou  liest  with  face  pale  of  hue 
Full  innocent,  that  durst  I  swear,  I  wis. 
O  thou  rash  hand  that  wrought  so  far  amiss, 
O  reckless  outrage,  O  disordered  wit  175 

That  unadvised  didst  the  guiltless  smite, 
What  in  my  false  suspicion  have  I  done, 
Why  thro'  mistrust  was  I  thus  wrought  upon  ? 

44  Let  every  Man  beware  and  keep  aloof 
From  rashness,  and  trust  only  to  strong  proof;  180 

Smite  not  too  soon  before  ye  have  learnt  why, 
And  be  advised  well  and  stedfastly, 
Ere  ye  to  any  execution  bring 
Yourselves  from  wrath  or  surmise  of  a  thing. 
Alas!  A  thousand  folk  hath  ire  laid  low  185 

Fully  undone  and  brought  to  utter  woe, 
Alas  for  sorrow  I  myself  will  slay." 

And  to  the  Crow,  "O  vile  wretch,"  did  he  say, 
"Now  will  I  thee  requite  for  thy  false  tale. 
Whilom  thou  sang  like  any  Nightingale,  190 

Henceforth,  false  thief,  thy  song  from  thee  is  gone 
And  vanished  thy  white  feathers,  every  one. 
In  all  thy  life  thou  nevermore  shalt  speak 
Thus  on  a  traitor  I  men's  wrongs  do  wreak. 

159-60  Him  thought  his  woeful  heart  would  burst  in  two, 

His  bow  he  took,  an  arrow  forth  he  drew  MS,  1 

174  thou  rash]  senseless  MS.  1  178  Where  was  my  wit?  Why  was 

I  wrought  upon  ?  MS.  1  180  From  rashness  trusting  nought  with- 

out .  .  .  MS.  1  184  Yourselves  upon  your  anger  at  the  thing  MS.  1 

187  sorrow]  anger  MS.  1  194  do  I  vengeance  wreak  MS.  1 


Thou  and  thy  offspring  ever  shall  be  black,  195 

Never  again  sweet  noises  shall  ye  make, 

But  ever  cry  against  the  storm  and  rain 

In  token  that  through  thee  my  Wife  is  slain." 

And  to  the  Crow  he  sprang  and  that  anon 
And  plucking  his  white  feathers  left  not  one  200 

And  made  him  black,  and  took  from  him  his  song, 
And  eke  his  speech,  and  out  of  doors  him  flung 
Unto  perdition,  whither  let  him  go 
And  for  this  very  reason,  you  must  know, 
Black  is  the  colour  now  of  every  Crow.  205 

Lordings,  by  this  example  you  I  pray 
Beware  and  take  good  heed  of  what  you  say, 
Nor  ever  tell  a  man  in  all  your  life 
That  he  hath  got  a  false  and  slippery  wife ; 
His  deadly  hatred  till  his  life's  last  day  210 

You  will  provoke.   Dan  Solomon,  Clerks  say, 
For  keeping  well  his  tongue  hath  rules  good  store, 
But  I'm  no  textman,  as  I  said  before, 
Nathless  this  teaching  had  I  from  my  Dame. 
My  son,  think  of  the  Crow  in  God's  good  name.  215 

My  son,  full  often  times  hath  mickle  speech 
Brought  many  a  man  to  ruin,  as  Clerks  teach, 
But  'tis  not  often  words  bring  harm  to  men 
Spoken  advisedly,  and  now  and  then. 

My  son  be  like  the  wise  man  who  restrains  220 

His  tongue  at  all  times,  save  when  taking  pains 
To  speak  of  God  in  honour,  and  in  prayer. 
'Tis  the  first  virtue,  and  the  one  most  rare, 
My  son,  to  keep  the  tongue  with  proper  care. 
Wouldst  thou  be  told  what  a  rash  tongue  can  do,  225 

Right  as  a  sword  cutteth  an  arm  in  two 
So  can  a  tongue,  my  child,  a  friendship  sever, 
Parted  in  two  to  be  disjoined  for  ever. 
A  babbler  is  to  God  abominable. 

Read  Solomon  so  wise  and  honourable,  230 

Read  Seneca,  the  Psalms  of  David  read, 
Speak  not,  dear  son,  but  beckon  with  thy  head, 
Make  show  that  thou  wert  deaf  if  any  prater 
Do  in  thy  hearing  touch  a  perilous  matter ; 

200  And  stripp'd  off  his  white  feathers  every  one  MS.  1 

203  perdition]  the  devil  MS.  1  210  deadly]  mortal  MS.  1 

218  often]  oft  that  MS.  1  229  babbler]  Jangler  MS.  1 


The  Fleming  taught,  and  learn  it  if  thou  list,  235 

That  little  babbling  causeth  mickle  rest. 

My  son,  if  thou  no  wicked  word  have  said 

Then  need'st  thou  have  no  fear  to  be  betrayed, 

But  who  misspeaks,  whatever  may  befal, 

Cannot  by  any  means  his  word  recal.  240 

Thing  that  is  said,  is  said,  goes  forth  anon, 

Howe'er  we  grieve  repenting,  it  is  gone, 

The  tale-bearer's  his  slave  to  whom  he  said 

The  thing  for  which  he  now  is  fitly  paid. 

My  son,  beware,  and  be  not  Author  new  245 

Of  tidings,  whether  they  bo  false  or  true. 

Where'er  thou  travel,  among  high  or  low, 

Keep  well  thy  tongue,  and  think  upon  the  Crow. 


[Composed  1802.] 


I  HAVE  been  here  in  the  Moon -light, 
I  have  been  here  in  the  Day, 
I  have  been  here  in  the  Dark  Night, 
And  the  Stream  was  still  roaring  away. 


These  Chairs  they  have  no  words  to  utter, 
No  fire  is  in  the  grate  to  stir  or  flutter, 
The  cieling  and  floor  are  mute  as  a  stone, 
My  chamber  is  hush'd  and  still, 

And  I  am  alone, 

Happy  and  alone. 

Oh  who  would  be  afraid  of  life, 

The  passion  the  sorrow  and  the  strife, 

When  he  may  be 

Shelter'd  so  easily  ? 
May  lie  in  peace  on  his  bed 
Happy  as  they  who  are  dead. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards 
I  have  thoughts  that  are  fed  by  the  sun. 
The  things  which  I  see 
Are  welcome  to  me,w 
Welcome  every  one: 

239  But  he  that  hath  mis-said  whate'er  befal  MS.  1 


I  do  not  wish  to  lie 

Dead,  dead, 
Dead  without  any  company ; 

Here  alone  on  my  bed, 
With  thoughts  that  are  fed  by  the  Sun, 
And  hopes  that  are  welcome  every  one, 

Happy  am  I. 

0  Life,  there  is  about  thee 
A  deep  delicious  peace, 

1  would  not  be  without  thee, 

Stay,  oh  stay! 
Yet  be  thou  ever  as  now, 

Sweetness  and  breath  with  the  quiet  of  death, 
Be  but  thou  ever  as  now, 

Peace,  peace,  peace. 


[Composed  April  27-9,  1802. — First  printed  in  1897.] 

WHO  leads  a  happy  life 

If  it 's  not  the  merry  Tinker, 

Not  too  old  to  have  a  Wife ; 

Not  too  much  a  thinker  ? 

Through  the  meadows,  over  stiles,  5 

Where  there  are  no  measured  miles, 

Day  by  day  he  finds  his  way 

Among  the  lonely  houses : 

Right  before  the  Farmer's  door 

Down  he  sits ;  his  brows  he  knits ;  10 

Then  his  hammer  he  rouzes ; 

Batter!  batter!  batter! 

He  begins  to  clatter ; 

And^while  the  work  is  going  on 

Right  good  ale  he  bouzes ;  15 

And,  when  it  is  done,  away  he  is  gone ; 

And,  in  his  scarlet  coat, 

With  a  merry  note, 

He  sings  the  sun  to  bed ; 

And,  without  making  a  pother,  20 

Finds  some  place  or  other 
For  his  own  careless  head. 

When  in  the  woods  the  little  fowls 

Begin  their  merry-making, 

Again  the  jolly  Tinker  bowls  25 

Forth  with  small  leave-taking: 


Through  the  valley,  up  the  hill ; 

He  can't  go  wrong,  go  where  he  will: 

Tricks  he  has  twenty, 

And  pastimes  in  plenty ;  30 

He 's  the  terror  of  boys  in  the  midst  of  their  noise ; 

When  the  market  Maiden, 

Bringing  home  her  lading, 

Hath  pass'd  him  in  a  nook, 

With  his  outlandish  look,  35 

And  visage  grim  and  sooty, 

Bumming,  bumming,  bumming, 

What  is  that  that's  coming  ? 

Silly  maid  as  ever  was ! 

She  thinks  that  she  and  all  she  has  40 

Will  be  the  Tinker's  booty ; 

At  the  pretty  Maiden's  dread 

The  Tinker  shakes  his  head, 

Laughing,  laughing,  laughing, 

As  if  he  would  laugh  himself  dead.  45 

And  thus,  with  work  or  none, 

The  Tinker  lives  in  fun, 

With  a  light  soul  to  cover  him ; 

And  sorrow  and  care  blow  over  him, 

Whether  he  's  up  or  a-bed.  50 


[Orlando  Furioso,  i.  5-14] 
[Translated  November  1802.] 

ORLANDO  who  great  length  of  time  had  been 

Enamour'd  of  the  fair  Angelica ; 

And  left  for  her  beyond  the  Indian  sea, 

In  Media,  Tartary  and  lands  between 

Infinite  trophies  to  endure  for  aye,  5 

Now  to  the  west  with  her  had  bent  his  way 

Where,  underneath  the  lofty  Pyrenees, 

With  might  of  French  and  Germans,  Charlemagne 

Had  pitched  his  tents  upon  the  open  plain. 

To  make  Marsilius  and  king  Agramont  10 

Each  for  his  senseless  daring  smite  his  head, 
The  one  for  having  out  of  Afric  led 
As  many  as  could  carry  spear  or  lance, 
Th'other  for  pushing  all  Spain  militant 


To  overthrow  the  beauteous  realm  of  France ;  15 

Thus  in  fit  time  Orlando  reach'd  the  tents 
But  of  his  coming  quickly  he  repents. 

For  there  to  him  was  his  fair  Lady  lost, 

Taken  away !  how  frail  our  judgments  are 

She  who  from  western  unto  eastern  coast  20 

[  Y  with  so  long  a  war 

Was  taken  from  him  now  'mid  such  a  band 

Of  his  own  friends  and  in  his  native  land, 

Not  one  sword  drawn  to  help  the  thing  or  bar! 

'Twas  the  sage  Emperor  wishing  much  to  slake  25 

A  burning  feud  who  did  the  Lady  take. 

For  quarrels  had  sprung  lately  and  yet  were 

Twixt  Count  Orlando  and  Rinaldo :  wroth 

Were  the  two  kinsmen,  for  that  beauty  rare 

With  amorous  desire  had  mov'd  them  both.  30 

The  Emperor  Charles  who  look'd  with  little  favour 

On  such  contention,  to  make  fast  the  aid 

The  two  Knights  ow'd  him,  took  away  the  Maid 

And  to  Duke  Namo  he  in  wardship  gave  her, 

Promising  her  to  him  who  of  the  two,  35 

During  that  contest  on  that  mighty  day, 

The  greatest  host  of  Infidels  should  slay 

And  most  excelling  feats  in  battle  do ; 

But  the  baptiz'd,  who  look'd  not  for  such  fate, 

On  that  day's  conflict  fled  their  foes  before ;  40 

The  Duke  a  prisoner  was  with  many  more 

And  the  Pavillion  was  left  desolate. 

Wherein,  the  Lady  (as  it  were  in  thrall 

Remaining  there  to  be  the  Victor's  prize) 

Mounted,  to  meet  such  chance  as  might  befall,  45 

Her  courser,  and  at  length  away  she  flies. 

Presaging  Fortune  would  the  Christian  faith 

Disown  that  day,  into  a  wood  she  hies, 

Where  she  a  knight  on  foot  encountered  hath 

Who  was  approaching  on  a  narrow  path.  50 

Helmet  on  head  and  cuirass  on  his  back, 
Sword  by  his  side  and  on  his  arm  his  shield, 
He  ran  more  lightly  on  the  forest  track 
Than  swain  half  naked  racing  in  the  field ; 

1  MS.  defective. 


Never  did  Shepherdess  when  she  hath  spied  55 

A  snake  turn  round  so  quickly  in  her  fear 

As  drew  Angelica  the  rein  aside 

When  she  beheld  the  knight  approaching  near. 

This  was  that  doughty  Paladin,  the  Son 

Of  Amon  Lord  of  Montalban  in  France,  60 

From  whom  his  steed  Bayardo,  by  strange  chance, 

Had  slipp'd  not  long  before  and  loose  had  run. 

Soon  as  he  to  the  Lady  turn'd  his  eyes, 

Though  distant,  he  that  mien  angelical 

And  that  fair  countenance  did  recognize,  65 

Whereby  his  knightly  heart  was  held  in  thrall. 

The  affrighted  Lady  turn'd  her  Horse  around 

And  drove  him  with  loose  bridle  through  the  wood, 

Nor  e'er  in  rough  or  smooth  did  she  take  thought 

If  safer  way  or  better  might  be  found ;  70 

But  pale,  and  trembling,  taking  her  of  nought 

She  left  the  horse  to  find  what  way  he  could ; 

Now  up  now  down  along  the  forest  fast 

She  drove,  and  to  a  river  came  at  last. 

There  was  Ferr&no  on  the  river  brink  75 

All  overspread  with  dust  and  faint  with  heat ; 

Who  thither  from  the  fight  had  come  to  drink 

And  to  repose  himself  in  this  retreat ; 

And  there,  though  loth,  he  was  compelled  to  stay ; 

His  helmet,  while  with  thirst  he  drank  amain,  80 

Had  slipp'd  into  the  river  where  it  lay, 

Nor  could  he  yet  recover  it  again. 


[Composed  after  1802.] 

i.     To  the  grove,  the  meadow,  the  Well 
I  will  go  with  the  flock  I  love ; 
By  the  Well,  in  the  meadow,  the  grove 
My  Goddess  will  find  with  me 
Whatever  shed  or  cell 
Shall  to  us  a  cover  be 
That  there  with  pleasure  and  glee 
Innocence  will  dwell. 

ii.     The  Swallow  that  hath  lost 
His  Mate  and  Lover 
Flies  from  coast  to  coast 
All  the  country  over 
917.17  IV  B  b 


Nor  finds  rest  on  earth  beneath  him 
Pastime  in  heaven  above : 
Chrystal  fountain,  sunny  river 

Seeks  no  more,  forsakes  the  daylight 
And  in  his  lonesome  life  he  ever 
Remembers  his  first  love. 

iii.     Oh  bless'd  all  bliss  above 
Innocent  shepherdesses 
Whom  in  love  no  law  distresses 
Who  have  no  law  but  love, 
Could  I  as  ye  may  do 
Who  conceald  adore  him 
Tell  what  love  I  have  for  him 
Bless'd  were  I  too 
All  bliss  above. 

iv.    I  will  be  that  fond  Mother 

Who  her  Babe  doth  threaten 
Yet  is  it  never  beaten 
Never  at  all. 

She  lifts  her  hand  to  strike  it 
But  the  blow  intended 
By  Love  is  suspended 
When  it  would  fall. 

v.     Gentle  Zephyr 

If  you  pass  her  by 
Tell  her  you're  a  sigh 
But  tell  her  not  from  whom. 
Limpid  streamlet 
If  you  meet  her  ever 
Say  with  your  best  endeavour 
That  swoln  with  tears  you  come 
But  tell  her  not  of  whom. 



[Composed  1806  ?  First  printed  in  R.  Duppa's  Life  of  Michel  Angela,  1807.] 
*          *          *          *          * 

AND  sweet  it  is  to  see  in  summer  time 

The  daring  goats  upon  a  rocky  hill 
Climb  here  and  there,  still  browzing  as  they  climb, 

While,  far  below,  on  rugged  pipe  and  shrill 
The  master  vents  his  pain ;  or  homely  rhyme  5 


He  chaunts ;  now  changing  place,  now  standing  still ; 
While  his  beloved,  cold  of  heart  and  stern ! 
Looks  from  the  shade  in  sober  unconcern. 

Nor  less  another  sight  do  I  admire, 

The  rural  family  round  their  hut  of  clay ;  10 

Some  spread  the  table,  and  some  light  the  fire 

Beneath  the  household  Rock,  in  open  day ; 
The  ass's  colt  with  panniers  some  attire ; 

Some  tend  the  bristly  hogs  with  fondling  play ; 
This  with  delighted  heart  the  Old  Man  sees,  15 

Sits  out  of  doors,  and  suns  himself  at  ease. 

The  outward  image  speaks  the  inner  mind, 

Peace  without  hatred,  which  no  care  can  fret ; 
Entire  contentment  in  their  plough  they  find, 

Nor  home  return  until  the  sun  be  set:  20 

No  bolts  they  have,  their  houses  are  resign'd 

To  Fortune — let  her  take  what  she  can  get: 
A  hearty  meal  then  crowns  the  happy  day, 

And  sound  sleep  follows  on  a  bed  of  clay. 

In  that  condition  Envy  is  unknown,  25 

And  Haughtiness  was  never  there  a  guest ; 
They  only  crave  some  meadow  overgrown 

With  herbage  that  is  greener  than  the  rest ; 
The  plough's  a  sovereign  treasure  of  their  own ; 

The  glittering  share,  the  gem  they  dream  the  best ;  30 

A  pair  of  panniers  serve  them  for  buffette ; 

Trenchers  and  porringers,  for  golden  plate. 



[Composed  1806? — First  printed  1883.] 
Night  Speaks. 

GBATEFUL  is  Sleep,  my  life  in  stone  bound  fast 
More  grateful  still :  while  wrong  and  shame  shall  last, 
On  me  can  Time  no  happier  state  bestow 
Than  to  be  left  unconscious  of  the  woe. 
Ah  then,  lest  you  awaken  me,  speak  low. 

W.  W. 

GBATBJFUL  is  Sleep,  more  grateful  still  to  be 
Of  marble ;  for  while  shameless  wrong  and  woe 
Prevail,  'tis  best  to  neither  hear  nor  see : 
Then  wake  me  not,  I  pray  you.   Hush,  speak  low. 



[Translation  of  Latin  Verses.] 

COME,  gentle  Sleep,  Death's  image  tho'  thou  art, 
Come,  share  my  couch,  nor  speedily  depart ; 
How  sweet  thus  living  without  life  to  lie, 
Thus  without  death  how  sweet  it  is  to  die. 



[Composed  ? — First  printed  1896.] 

CAMOENS,  he  the  accomplished  and  the  good. 
Gave  to  thy  fame  a  more  illustrious  flight 
Than  that  brave  vessel,  though  she  sailed  so  far ; 
Through  him  her  course  along  the  Austral  flood 
Is  known  to  all  beneath  the  polar  star, 
Through  him  the  Antipodes  in  thy  name  delight. 


[Composed  December  1804. — First  printed  1887.] 

No  whimsy  of  the  purse  is  here, 
No  Pleasure-House  forlorn, 
Use,  comfort,  do  this  roof  endear ; 
A  tributary  Shed  to  chear 
The  little  Cottage  that  is  near, 
To  help  it  and  adorn. 


[Composed  1805.] 

DISTRESSFUL  gift !  this  Book  receives 

Upon  its  melancholy  leaves, 

This  poor  ill-fated  Book: 

I  wrote,  and  when  I  reach'd  the  end 

Started  to  think  that  thou,  my  Friend, 

Upon  the  words  which  I  had  penn'd 

Must  never,  never  look. 


Alas,  alas,  it  is  a  Tale 

Of  Thee  thyself;  fond  heart  and  frail! 

The  sadly -tuneful  line  10 

The  written  words  that  seem  to  throng 

The  dismal  page,  the  sound,  the  song, 

The  murmur  all  to  thee  belong, 

Too  surely  they  are  thine. 

And  so  I  write  what  neither  Thou  15 

Must  look  upon,  nor  others  now, 

Their  tears  would  flow  too  fast  ; 

Some  solace  thus  I  strive  to  gain, 

Making  a  kind  of  secret  chain, 

If  so  I  may,  betwixt  us  twain  20 

In  memory  of  the  past. 

Oft  have  I  handled,  often  eyed, 

This  volume  with  delight  and  pride, 

The  written  page  and  white ; 

Oft  have  I  turn'd  them  o'er  and  o'er,  25 

One  after  one  and  score  by  score, 

All  filFd  or  to  be  fill'd  with  store 

Of  verse  for  his  delight. 

He  framed  the  Book  which  now  I  see, 

This  book  that  rests  upon  my  knee,  30 

He  framed  with  dear  intent ; 

To  travel  with  him  night  and  day, 

And  hi  his  private  hearing  say 

Refreshing  things,  whatever  way 

His  weary  Vessel  went.  35 

And  now — upon  the  written  leaf 

With  heart  oppress'd  by  pain  and  grief 

I  look,  but,  gracious  God, 

Oh  grant  that  I  may  never  find 

Worse  matter  or  a  heavier  mind,  40 

Grant  this,  and  let  me  be  resign'd 

Beneath  thy  chast'ning  rod. 

XI.  23  volume  with  delight]  book  with  joyous  glee  S.  H.  30  book  that 
rests]  very  book  S.  H.  36  And]  But  S.  H.  37-8  With  . . .  look  etc.] 
I  look  indeed  with  pain  and  grief,  I  do  S.  H.  40/1  For  those  which 

yet  remain  behind   8.  H. 



[Composed  1801-6. — First  printed  1897.] 

WHAT  waste  in  the  labour  of  Chariot  and  Steed ! 
For  this  came  ye  hither  ?  is  this  your  delight  ? 
There  are  twenty -four  letters  and  these  ye  can  read ; 
But  Nature's  ten  thousand  are  Blanks  in  your  sight. 
Then  throw  by  your  Books,  and  the  study  begin ; 
Or  sleep,  and  be  blameless,  and  wake  at  your  Inn ! 


[Composed  1806. — First  printed  1897.] 

ORCHARD  Pathway,  to  and  fro, 
Ever  with  thee,  did  I  go, 
Weaving  Verses,  a  huge  store ! 
These,  and  many  hundreds  more, 
And,  in  memory  of  the  same 
This  little  lot  shall  bear  Thy  Name! 

XIV.     ST.  PAUL'S  * 
[Composed  March-April  1808.] 

PBESS'D  with  conflicting  thoughts  of  love  and  fear 

I  parted  from  thee,  Friend,  and  took  my  way 

Through  the  great  City,  pacing  with  an  eye 

Downcast,  ear  sleeping,  and  feet  masterless 

That  were  sufficient  guide  unto  themselves,  5 

And  step  by  step  went  pensively.   Now,  mark ! 

Not  how  my  trouble  was  entirely  hush'd, 

(That  might  not  be)  but  how,  by  sudden  gift, 

Gift  of  Imagination's  holy  power, 

My  Soul  in  her  uneasiness  received  10 

An  anchor  of  stability. — It  chanced 

That  while  I  thus  was  pacing,  I  raised  up 

My  heavy  eyes  and  instantly  beheld, 

Saw  at  a  glance  in  that  familiar  spot 

A  visionary  scene — a  length  of  street  15 

Laid  open  in  its  morning  quietness, 

Deep,  hollow,  unobstructed,  vacant,  smooth, 

And  white  with  winter's  purest  white,  as  fair, 

As  fresh  and  spotless  as  he  ever  sheds 

XIV.  3  pacing]  walking  MS.  A  11  stability]  security  MS.  A 


On  field  or  mountain.  Moving  Form  was  none  20 

Save  here  and  there  a  shadowy  Passenger 

Slow,  shadowy,  silent,  dusky,  and  beyond 

And  high  above  this  winding  length  of  street, 

This  moveless  and  unpeopled  avenue, 

Pure,  silent,  solemn,  beautiful,  was  seen  25 

The  huge  majestic  Temple  of  St.  Paul 

In  awful  sequestration,  through  a  veil, 

Through  its  own  sacred  veil  of  falling  snow. 


[Composed  April  1808. — Published  September  1839.] 
(Taitfa  Edinburgh  Magazine) 

WHO  weeps  for  strangers  ?   Many  wept 

For  George  and  Sarah  Green ; 
Wept  for  that  pair's  unhappy  fate, 

Whose  grave  may  here  be  seen. 

By  night,  upon  these  stormy  fells,  5 

Did  wife  and  husband  roam ; 
Six  little  ones  at  home  had  left, 

And  could  not  find  that  home. 

For  any  dwelling-place  of  man 

As  vainly  did  they  seek.  10 

He  perish 'd ;  and  a  voice  was  heard — 

The  widow's  lonely  shriek. 

Not  many  steps,  and  she  was  left 

A  body  without  life — 
A  few  short  steps  were  the  chain  that  bound  15 

The  husband  to  the  wife. 

22  silent]  soundless  MS.  A  24  moveless]  noiseless  MS.  A 

XV.  Title.  Elegiac  Stanzas  composed  in  the  Churchyard  of  Grasmere,  West- 
morland, a  few  days  after  the  Interment  there  of  a  Man  and  his  Wife, 
Inhabitants  of  the  Vale,  who  were  lost  upon  the  neighbouring  Mountains, 
on  the  night  of  the  19th  of  March  last.  MS. 

5  fells]  Heights  MS.  7  at  home]  the  Pair  MS.         8  that]  their  MS. 

12/13  Down  the  dark  precipice  he  fell, 

And  she  was  left  alone 

Not  long  to  think  of  her  Children  dear, 

Not  long  to  pray  or  groan!  MS. 
13  A  few  wild  steps,  she  too  MS. 
15-16  The  chain  of  but  a  few  wild  steps 

To  the  Husband  bound  the  Wife.  MS. 
16/17  Now  lodge  they  in  one  Grave,  this  Grave 

A  House  with  two -fold  Roof, 

Two  Hillocks  but  one  Grave,  their  own. 

A  covert  tempest -proof. 


Now  do  those  sternly -featured  hills 

Look  gently  on  this  grave ; 
And  quiet  now  are  the  depths  of  air, 

As  a  sea  without  a  wave.  20 

But  deeper  lies  the  heart  of  peace 

In  quiet  more  profound ; 
The  heart  of  quietness  is  here 

Within  this  churchyard  bound. 

And  from  all  agony  of  mind  25 

It  keeps  them  safe,  and  far 
From  fear  and  grief,  and  from  all  need 

Of  sun  or  guiding  star. 

O  darkness  of  the  grave !  how  deep, 

After  that  living  night —  30 

That  last  and  dreary  living  one 

Of  sorrow  and  affright ! 

0  sacred  marriage-bed  of  death, 
That  keeps  them  side  by  side 

In  bond  of  peace,  in  bond  of  love,  35 

That  may  not  be  untied ! 

And  from  all  agony  of  mind 

It  keeps  them  safe  and  far ; 

From  fear,  and  from  all  need  of  hope, 

From  sun,  or  guiding  Star. 

Our  peace  is  of  the  immortal  Soul, 
Our  anguish  is  of  clay ; 
Such  bounty  is  in  Heaven,  so  pass 
The  bitterest  pangs  away. 

Three  jdays  did  teach  the  Mother's  Babe 

Forgetfully  to  rest 

In  reconcilement  how  serene  1 

Upon  another's  breast. 

The  trouble  of  the  elder  Brood 

1  know  not  that  it  stay'd 

So  long — they  seiz'd  their  joy,  and  they 

Have  sung,  and  danc'd,  and  play'd.  MS. 

19  are  the  depths]  is  the  depth  MS.  22  quiet]  shelter  MS.  24 

bound]  ground  MS.  25-8  v.  16/17  (second  stanza)  29  deep] 

calm  MS.  34  keeps]  holds  MS.  35  peace  .  ,  .  love]  love  .  ,  . 

God  MS. 




[Composed  1810. — First  printed  by  Grosart  1876.] 

TOBQTJATO  TASSO  rests  within  this  tomb ; 
This  figure  weeping  from  her  inmost  heart 
Is  Poesy ;  from  such  impassioned  grief 
Let  every  one  conclude  what  this  man  was. 


[Composed  1818. — First  printed  1891.] 

THE  Scottish  Broom  on  Birdnest  brae 

Twelve  tedious  years  ago, 

When  many  plants  strange  Blossoms  bore 

That  puzzled  high  and  low, 

A  not  unnatural  longing  felt,  5 

What  longing  would  ye  know  ? 

Why,  friend,  to  deck  her  supple  twigs 

With  yellow  in  full  blow. 

To  Lowther  Castle  she  addressed 

A  suit  both  bold  and  sly,  10 

(For  all  the  Brooms  on  Birdnest  brae 

Can  talk  and  speechify) 

That  flattering  breezes  blowing  thence 

Their  succour  might  supply, 

And  she  would  instantly  hang  out  15 

A  flag  of  yellow  dye. 

But  from  the  Castle's  turrets  blew 

A  chill  forbidding  blast, 

Which  the  poor  Broom  no  sooner  felt 

Than  she  shrank  up  as  fast ;  20 

Her  wished -for  yellow  she  forswore, 

And  since  that  time  has  cast 

Fond  looks  on  colours  three  or  four 

And  put  forth  Blue  at  last. 

But  now,  my  friends,  the  Election  comes  25 

In  June's  sunshiny  hours, 

When  every  bush  in  field  and  brae 

Is  clad  with  yellow  flowers. 

While  faction's  Blue  from  shop  and  booth 

Tricks  out  her  blustering  powers,  30 

Lo !  smiling  Nature's  lavish  hand 

Has  furnished  wreaths  for  ours. 

XVII.  27  every  field>nd  bank  MS. 



[Composed  1818. — First  printed  1896.] 

IF  money's  slack, 

The  shirt  on  my  back 

Shall  off,  and  go  to  the  hammer ; 

Though  I  sell  shirt  and  skin 

By  Jove  I'll  be  in, 

And  raise  up  a  radical  clamor  1 


[Composed  1827.— First  printed  1896.] 


CBITICS,  right  honourable  Bard,  decree 
Laurels  to  some,  a  night -shade  wreath  to  thee, 
Whose  rtiuse  a  sure  though  late  revenge  hath  ta'en 
Of  harmless  Abel's  death,  by  murdering  Cain. 


A  German  Haggis  from  receipt 
Of  him  who  cooked  the  death  of  Abel, 
And  sent  "warm-reeking,  rich"  and  sweet, 
From  Venice  to  Sir  Walter's  table. 


(In  Orasmere  Church) 
[Composed  1822.] 

THESE  vales  were  saddened  with  no  common  gloom 

When  good  Jemima  perished  in  her  bloom ; 

When  (such  the  awful  will  of  heaven)  she  died 

By  flames  breathed  on  her  from  her  own  fireside. 

On  Earth  we  dimly  see,  and  but  in  part  5 

We  know,  yet  Faith  sustains  the  sorrowing  heart ; 

And  she,  the  pure,  the  patient  and  the  meek, 

Might  have  fit  epitaph  could  feelings  speak ; 

If  words  could  tell  and  monuments  record, 

How  treasures  lost  are  inwardly  deplored,  10 

No  name  by  Grief's  fond  eloquence  adorn'd 

More  than  Jemima's  would  be  praised  and  mourn'd. 

The  tender  virtues  of  her  blameless  life, 

Bright  in  the  Daughter,  brighter  in  the  Wife, 

And  in  the  cheerful  Mother  brightest  shone, —  15 

That  light  hath  past  away — the  will  of  God  be  done. 



[Composed  1824.] 

FIBST  flowret  of  the  year  is  that  which  shows 

Its  rival  whiteness  'mid  surrounding  snows ; 

To  guide  the  shining  Company  of  Heaven, 

Brightest  as  first,  appears  the  star  of  Even ; 

Upon  imperial  brows  the  richest  gem  5 

Stands  ever  foremost  in  the  Diadem — 

How  then  could  mortal  so  unfit  engage 

To  take  his  Station  in  this  leading  page  ? 

For  others  marshall  with  his  pen  the  way 

Which  shall  be  trod  in  many  a  future  day  ?  to 

Why  was  not  some  fair  Lady  called  to  write 

Dear  words  for  memory,  "characters  of  light"  ? 

Lines  which  enraptured  fancy  might  explore 

And  thence  create  her  Image  ?  but  no  more ; 

Strangers !  forgive  the  deed,  an  unsought  task,  15 

For  what  you  look  on  Friendship  deigned  to  ask. 


[Composed  1826. — First  printed  1896.] 

PRITHEE,  gentle  Lady,  list 

To  a  small  Ventriloquist : 

I  whose  pretty  voice  you  hear 

From  this  paper  speaking  clear 

Have  a  Mother,  once  a  Statue !  5 

I,  thus  boldly  looking  at  you, 

Do  the  name  of  Paphus  bear, 

Famed  Pygmalion's  son  and  heir, 

By  that  wondrous  marble  wife 

That  from  Venus  took  her  life.  10 

Cupid's  nephew  then  am  I, 

Nor  unskilled  his  darts  to  ply ; 

But  from  him  I  crav'd  no  warrant 

Coming  thus  to  seek  my  parent ; 

Not  equipp'd  with  bow  and  quiver  15 

Her  by  menace  to  deliver, 

But  resolv'd  with  filial  care 

Her  captivity  to  share. 

Hence,  while  on  your  Toilet,  she 

Is  doom'd  a  Pincushion  to  be,  ao 


By  her  side  I'll  take  my  place, 

As  a  humble  Needlecase 

Furnish'd  too  with  dainty  thread 

For  a  Sempstress  thoroughbred. 

Then  let  both  be  kindly  treated  25 

Till  the  Term  for  which  she's  fated 

Durance  to  sustain,  be  over: 

So  will  I  ensure  a  Lover, 

Lady  I  to  your  heart's  content ;    \ 

But  on  harshness  are  you  bent  ?  1  30 

Bitterly  shall  you  repent  J 

When  to  Cyprus  back  I  go 

And  take  up  my  Uncle's  bow. 


[Composed  1826.] 

THE  Lady  whom  you  here  behold 
Was  once  Pygmalion's  Wife, 
He  made  her  first  from  marble  cold 
And  Venus  gave  her  life. 

When  fate  remov'd  her  from  his  arms  5 

Thro'  sundry  Forms  she  pass'd ; 

And  conquering  hearts  by  various  charms 

This  shape  she  took  at  last. 

We  caught  her,  true  tho'  strange  th'  account, 
Among  a  troop  of  Fairies,  10 

Who  nightly  frisk  on  our  green  Mount 
And  practise  strange  vagaries. 

Her  raiment  then  was  scant,  so  we 

Bestowed  some  pains  upon  her ; 

Part  for  the  sake  of  decency  15 

And  part  to  do  her  honour. 

But  as,  no  doubt,  'twas  for  her  sins 

We  found  her  in  such  plight, 

She  shall  do  penance  stuck  with  pins 

And  serve  you  day  and  night.  20 




[Composed  ]826. — First  printed  1889.] 

THE  doubt  to  which  a  wavering  hope  had  clung 

Is  fled ;  we  must  depart,  willing  or  not ; 

Sky -piercing  Hills !  must  bid  farewell  to  you 

And  all  that  ye  look  down  upon  with  pride, 

With  tenderness  imbosom ;  to  your  paths,  5 

And  pleasant  Dwellings,  to  familiar  trees 

And  wild -flowers  known  as  well  as  if  our  hands 

Had  tended  them :  and  O  pellucid  Spring ! 

Insensibly  the  foretaste  of  this  parting 

Hath  ruled  my  steps,  and  seals  me  to  thy  side,  10 

Mindful  that  thou  (ah !  wherefore  by  my  Muse 

So  long  unthank'd)  hast  cheared  a  simple  board 

With  beverage  pure  as  ever  fix'd  the  choice 

Of  Hermit,  dubious  where  to  scoop  his  cell ; 

Which  Persian  kings  might  envy ;  and  thy  meek  15 

And  gentle  aspect  oft  has  minister'd 

To  finer  uses.   They  for  me  must  cease ; 

Days  will  pass  on,  the  year,  if  years  be  given, 

Fade, — and  the  moralizing  mind  derive 

No  lesson  from  the  presence  of  a  Power  20 

By  the  inconstant  nature  we  inherit 

Unmatched  in  delicate  beneficence ; 

For  neither  unremitting  rains  avail 

To  swell  Thee  into  voice ;  nor  longest  drought 

Thy  bounty  stints,  nor  can  thy  beauty  mar,  25 

XXIV,  1—14  Pellucid  Spring,  unknown  beyond  the  verge 

Of  a  small  Hamlet,  there,  from  ancient  time 

Not  undistinguished  (for,  [of  ?]  Wells  that  ooze 

Or  Founts  that  gurgle  from  this  cloud-capp'd  hill, 

Their  common  Sire,  thou  only  bear'st  his  name) 

One  of  my  last  fond  looks  is  fix'd  on  Thee 

Who  with  the  comforts  of  my  simple  board 

Hast  blended,  thro'  the  space  of  twice  seven  years, 

Beverage  as  choice  as  ever  Hermit  prized  B 
8  and  Thou,  pellucid  Spring  corr.  to  text  A 
8/9      Unheard  of,  save  in  one  small  hamlet,  here 

Not  undistinguish'd,  for  of  Wells  that  ooze 

Or  founts  that  gurgle  from  yon  craggy  Steep, 

Their  common  Sire,  thou  only  bear'st  his  name.   A,  but  marked  'out*. 
16  thy  meek]  whose  pure  B  20  thy  Presence,  Gracious  Power,   B 

24-36  .  .  .  nor  hottest  drouth 

Can  stint  thy  bounty,  nor  thy  beauty  mar. 


Beauty  not  therefore  wanting  change  to  please 

The  fancy,  for  in  spectacles  unlook'd  for, 

And  transformations  silently  fulfill'd, 

What  witchcraft,  meek  Enchantress,  equals  thine  ? 

Not  yet,  perchance,  translucent  Spring,  had  tolFd         30 
The  Norman  curfew  bell  when  human  hands 
First  offered  help  that  the  deficient  rock 
Might  overarch  thee,  from  pernicious  heat 
Defended,  and  appropriate  to  man's  need. 
Such  ties  will  not  be  sever'd :  but,  when  We  35 

Are  gone,  what  summer  Loiterer,  with  regard 
Inquisitive,  thy  countenance  will  peruse,  , 

Pleased  to  detect  the  dimpling  stir  of  life, 
The  breathing  faculty  with  which  thou  yield 'st 
(Though  a  mere  goblet  to  the  careless  eye)  40 

Boons  inexhaustible  ?  Who,  hurrying  on 
With  a  step  quicken'd  by  November's  cold, 
Shall  pause,  the  skill  admiring  that  can  work 
Upon  thy  chance -defilements — wither 'd  twigs 
That,  lodg'd  within  thy  crystal  depths,  seem  bright,          45 
As  if  they  from  a  silver  tree  had  fallen ; 
And  oaken  leaves  that,  driv'n  by  whirling  blasts, 
Sank  down,  and  lay  immers'd  in  dead  repose 
For  Time's  invisible  tooth  to  prey  upon. 
Unsightly  objects  and  uncoveted,  50 

Till  thou  with  crystal  bead -drops  didst  encrust 
Their  skeletons,  turned  to  brilliant  ornaments. 
But,  from  thy  bosom,  would  some  venturous  hand 
Abstract  those  gleaming  Relics,  and  uplift  them, 
However  gently,  tow'rd  the  vulgar  air,  55 

At  once  their  tender  brightness  disappears, 
Leaving  the  Intermeddler  to  upbraid 
His  folly.  Thus  (I  feel  it  while  I  speak), 
Thus,  with  the  fibres  of  these  thoughts  it  fares ; 

Such  calm  attraction  have  I  found  in  thee, 

My  private  treasure,  while  the  neighbouring  stream 

Fam'd  through  the  land  for  turbulent  cascades 

Not  seldom  forfeits  his  dependent  praise 

And  disappoints  the  Stranger  lured  from  far. 

Henceforth,  what  summer  Loiterer  etc.  B 
26-7  ...  to  stir 

The  fancy  pleased  by  spectacles  unlook'd  for   A  (com  to  text) 
48  Have  sunk,  and  lain  B 
51-2  .  .  .  with  crust  of  liquid  beads  dost  turn 

Their  skeletons  to  etc.  B 
53  covetous  corr.  to  venturous  A,  B 


And  oh !  how  much,  of  all  that  love  creates  60 

Or  beautifies,  like  changes  undergoes, 

Suffers  like  loss  when  drawn  out  of  the  soul, 

Its  silent  laboratory !  Words  should  say 

(Could  they  depict  the  marvels  of  thy  cell) 

How  often  I  have  marked  a  plumy  fern  65 

From  the  live  rock  with  grace  inimitable 

Bending  its  apex  tow'rd  a  paler  self 

Reflected  all  in  perfect  lineaments — 

Shadow  and  substance  kissing  point  to  point 

In  mutual  stillness ;  or,  if  some  faint  breeze  70 

Entering  the  cell  gave  restlessness  to  One, 

The  Other,  glass'd  in  thy  unruffled  breast, 

Partook  of  every  motion,  met,  retired, 

And  met  again ;  such  playful  sympathy, 

Such  delicate  caress  as  in  the  shape  75 

Of  this  green  Plant  had  aptly  recompens'd 

For  baffled  lips  and  disappointed  arms 

And  hopeless  pangs,  the  Spirit  of  that  Youth, 

The  fair  Narcissus  by  some  pitying  God 

Changed  to  a  crimson  Flower ;  when  he,  whose  pride         80 

Provoked  a  retribution  too  severe, 

Had  pin'd ;  upon  his  watery  Duplicate 

Wasting  that  love  the  Nymphs  implored  in  vain. 

Thus  while  my  Fancy  wanders,  Thou,  clear  Spring, 
Mov'd  (shall  I  say  ?)  like  a  dear  Friend  who  meets  85 

A  parting  moment  with  her  loveliest  look, 
And  seemingly  her  happiest,  look  so  fair 
It  frustrates  its  own  purpose,  and  recals 
The  griev'd  One  whom  it  meant  to  send  away — 
Dost  tempt  me  by  disclosures  exquisite  90 

To  linger,  bending  over  Thee :  for  now, 
What  witchcraft,  mild  enchantress,  may  with  thee 

)2-9  Eager  as  one  who  on  some  pleasant  day 

Peers  from  a  headland  searching  the  sea  clouds 
For  coming  sails,  or  as  an  earnest  child, 
While  deaf  to  plaudits  that  proclaim  the  joy 
Of  all  around  him,  sits  by  some  new  charm 
Of  scenic  transmutation,  wonder-bound. 
Where  is  thy  earthy  floor  ?  from  keenest  sight 
That  obstacle  is  vanished ;  and  slant  beams  B 
)  2-1 17  B  has  another  version  of  these  lines: 

A  subtler  operation  may  withdraw 

From  sight  the  solid  floor  that  limited 

The  nice  communion,  but  that  barrier  gone 

Nought  checks  nor  intercepts  the  downward  shew 

Created  for  the  moment,  flowerets,  plants, 

And  the  whole  body  of  the  wall  they  deck, 

384:  APPENDIX  B 

Compare !  thy  earthy  bed  a  moment  past 

Palpable  unto  sight  as  the  dry  ground, 

Eludes  perception,  not  by  rippling  airs  95 

Concealed,  nor  through  effect  of  some  impure 

Upstirring ;  but,  abstracted  by  a  charm 

Of  thy  own  cunning,  earth  mysteriously 

From  under  thee  hath  vanished,  and  slant  beams 

The  silent  inquest  of  a  western  Sun,  100 

Assisting,  lucid  Well-Spring !   Thou  reveal'st 

Communion  without  check  of  herbs  and  flowers 

And  the  vault's  hoary  sides  to  which  they  clung, 

Imag'd  in  downward  show ;  the  flower,  the  herbs, 

These  not  of  earthly  texture,  and  the  vault  105 

Not  there  diminutive,  but  through  a  scale 

Of  Vision  less  and  less  distinct,  descending 

To  gloom  impenetrable.   So  (if  truths 

The  highest  condescend  to  be  set  forth 

By  processes  minute),  even  so — when  thought  no 

Wins  help  from  something  greater  than  herself — 

Is  the  firm  basis  of  habitual  sense 

Supplanted,  not  for  treacherous  vacancy 

And  blank  dissociation  from  a  world 

We  love,  but  that  the  residues  of  flesh,  115 

Mirror'd,  yet  not  too  strictly,  may  refine 

To  Spirit ;  for  the  Idealizing  Soul 

Time  wears  the  features  of  Eternity ; 

And  Nature  deepens  into  Nature's  God. 

Millions  of  kneeling  Hindoos  at  this  day  120 

Bow  to  the  watery  Element,  adored 
In  their  vast  Stream,  and  if  an  age  hath  been 
(As  Books  and  haply  votive  Altars  vouch) 
When  British  floods  were  worshipped,  some  faint  trace 
Of  that  idolatry,  through  monkish  rites  125 

Transmitted  far  as  living  memory, 

Reflected  but  not  there  diminutive, 

These  of  etherial  texture,  and  thro*  scale 

Of  vision  less  and  less  distinct  descending 

To  gloom  impenetrable.   So  in  moods 

Of  thought  pervaded  by  supernal  grace 

Is  the  firm  base  of  ordinary  sense 

Supplanted,  and  the  residues  of  flesh 

Are  linked  with  spirit,  shallow  life  is  lost 

In  being;  to  the  idealizing  Soul  .  .  . 
93      earthy]  pebbly   A  com  to  text 

101  lucid  Well-Spring]  air  propitious,  B  108-10  truths  .  .  .  when] 

not  in  IB  112  firm  basis]  coarse  texture  A  corr.  to  text 


Might  wait  on  Thee,  a  silent  Monitor, 

On  thee,  bright  Spring,  a  bashful  little-one, 

Yet  to  the  measure  of  thy  promises 

True,  as  the  mightiest ;  upon  thee,  sequestered  130 

For  meditation,  nor  inopportune 

For  social  interest  such  as  I  have  shared. 

Peace  to  the  sober  Matron  who  shall  dip 

Her  Pitcher  here  at  early  dawn,  by  me 

No  longer  greeted — to  the  tottering  Sire,  135 

For  whom  like  service,  now  and  then  his  choice, 

Relieves  the  tedious  holiday  of  age — 

Thoughts  raised  above  the  Earth  while  here  he  sits 

Feeding  on  sunshine — to  the  blushing  Girl 

Who  here  forgets  her  errand,  nothing  loth  140 

To  be  waylaid  by  her  Betrothed,  peace 

And  pleasure  sobered  down  to  happiness ! 

But  should  these  hills  be  ranged  by  one  whose  Soul 
Scorning  love -whispers  shrinks  from  love  itself 
As  Fancy's  snare  for  female  vanity,  145 

Here  may  the  aspirant  find  a  try  sting -place 
For  loftier  intercourse.   The  Muses  crowned 
With  wreaths  that  have  not  faded  to  this  Hour 
Sprung  from  high  Jove,  of  sage  Mnemosyne 
Enamour 'd,  so  the  fable  runs ;  but  they  150 

Certes  were  self-taught  Damsels,  scattered  Births 
Of  many  a  Grecian  Vale,  who  sought  not  praise, 
And,  heedless  even  of  listeners,  warbled  out 
Their  own  emotions  given  to  mountain  air 
In  notes  which  mountain  echoes  would  take  up  155 

Boldly,  and  bear  away  to  softer  life ; 
Hence  deified  as  Sisters  they  were  bound 
Together  in  a  never-dying  choir ; 
Who  with  their  Hippocrene  and  grottoed  fount 
Of  Castaly,  attest  that  Woman's  heart  160 

Was  in  the  limpid  age  of  this  stained  world 
The  most  assured  seat  of  [fine  ecstasy,] 
And  new-born  waters,  deemed  the  happiest  source 
Of  Inspiration  for  the  conscious  lyre. 

Lured  by  the  crystal  element  in  times  165 

Stormy  and  fierce,  the  Maid  of  Arc  withdrew 
From  human  converse  to  frequent  alone 
The  Fountain  of  the  Fairies.   What  to  her, 

20-45  A  page  missing  from    B  162  The  most  rever'd  seat  of 

ne  ecstasy.    B  165-6  In  harsher  times  the  Maid  of  Arc  would 

beal    B 
917.17  IV  C  C 


Smooth  summer  dreams,  old  favors  of  the  place, 

Pageant  and  revels  of  blithe  Elves — to  her  170 

Whose  country  groan'd  under  a  foreign  scourge  ? 

She  pondered  murmurs  that  attuned  her  ear 

For  the  reception  of  far  other  sounds 

Than  their  too -happy  minstrelsy, — a  Voice 

Reached  her  with  supernatural  mandates  charged  175 

More  awful  than  the  chambers  of  dark  earth 

Have  virtue  to  send  forth.   Upon  the  marge 

Of  the  benignant  fountain,  while  she  stood 

Gazing  intensely,  the  translucent  lymph 

Darkened  beneath  the  shadow  of  her  thoughts  180 

As  if  swift  clouds  swept  over  it,  or  caught 

War's  tincture,  mid  the  forest  green  and  still, 

Turned  into  blood  before  her  heart -sick  eye. 

Erelong,  forsaking  all  her  natural  haunts, 

All  her  accustomed  offices  and  cares  185 

Relinquishing,  but  treasuring  every  law 

And  grace  of  feminine  humanity, 

The  chosen  Rustic  urged  a  warlike  Steed 

Tow'rd  the  beleaguer 'd  city,  in  the  might 

Of  prophecy,  accoutred  to  fulfil,  190 

At  the  sword's  point,  visions  conceived  in  love. 

The  cloud  of  Rooks  descending  through  mid  air 
Softens  its  evening  uproar  towards  a  close 
Near  and  more  near ;  for  this  protracted  strain 
A  warning  not  unwelcome.   Fare  thee  well  195 

Emblem  of  equanimity  and  truth, 
Farewell — if  thy  composure  be  not  ours, 

169-70  Were  the  reputed  doings  of  the  Elves, 

Their  merryment  and  revelries ;  to  her  B 
173-9     .  .  .  reception  of  a  deeper  voice 

And  holier  listenings,  the  translucent  lapse  B 
183-4  Then  tinkled  audibly  the  fairy  fount, 

Till  haply  that  mysterious  voice  again 

Roused  her,  and,  from  the  injuries  of  France 

Sucking  resentment,  the  moist  eye  took  fire. 

Her  outstretch'd  arms,  as  if  in  midnight  dreams, 

Petitioned  the  blank  sir  for  spear  and  shield ; 

And  her  breast  heaved,  labouring  beneath  a  soul 

Wild  as  the  wind ;  and,  when  the  fit  was  past, 

Not  less  determin'd  than  a  torrent  stream 

That,  having  smooth'd  its  brow  on  some  dread  brink 

Drops  headlong,  resolute  to  find  or  make 

A  Gulph  of  rest,  deep  as  the  height  it  falls  from.   B,  but  deleted 
184-6  Erelong,  her  lowly  tasks  and  natural  haunts 

Relinquishing  B 


Yet  as  Thou  still  when  we  are  gone  wilt  keep 

Thy  living  Chaplet  of  fresh  flowers  and  fern, 

Cherished  in  shade  tho'  peeped  at  by  the  sun ;          200 

So  shall  our  bosoms  feel  a  covert  growth 

Of  grateful  recollections,  tribute  due 

To  thy  obscure  and  modest  attributes 

To  thee,  dear  Spring,  and  all-sustaining  Heaven ! 



[Composed  1828-9.] 

THAT  gloomy  cave,  that  gothic  nich, 
Those  trees  that  forward  lean 
As  if  enamoured  of  the  brook — 
How  soothing  is  the  scene ! 

No  witchery  of  inky  words 

Can  such  illusions  yield ; 

Yet  all  (ye  Landscape  Poets  blush!) 

Was  penned  by  Edmund  Field. 


[Composed  1829? — First  printed  1889.] 

MY  Lord  and  Lady  Darlington, 

I  would  not  speak  in  snarling  tone ; 

Nor  to  you,  good  Lady  Vane, 

Would  I  give  a  moment's  pain ; 

Nor  Miss  Taylor,  Captain  Stamp,  5 

Would  I  your  flights  of  memory  cramp. 

Yet,  having  spent  a  summer's  day 

On  the  green  margin  of  Loch  Tay, 

And  doubled  (prospect  ever  bettering) 

The  mazy  reaches  of  Loch  Katerine,  10 

And  more  than  once  been  free  at  Luss, 

Loch  Lomond's  beauties  to  discuss, 

And  wished,  at  least,  to  hear  the  blarney 

Of  the  sly  boatmen  of  Killarney, 

And  dipped  my  hand  in  dancing  wave  15 

Of  Eau  de  Zurich,  Lac  Gen&ve, 

202/3  (Not  less  than  to  wide  lake  and  foaming  rill)  B 


And  bowed  to  many  a  major-domo 

On  stately  terraces  of  Como, 

And  seen  the  Simplon's  forehead  hoary, 

Reclined  on  Lago  Maggiore,  20 

At  breathless  eventide  at  rest 

On  the  broad  water's  placid  breast, — 

I,  not  insensible,  Heaven  knows, 

To  all  the  charms  this  Station  shows, 

Must  tell  you,  Captain,  Lord  and  Ladies,  25 

For  honest  worth  one  poet's  trade  is, 

That  your  praise  appears  to  me 

Folly's  own  hyperbole. 


[Composed  May,  1833.— First  printed  1885.] 

AVAUNT  this  oeconomic  rage ! 

What  would  it  bring  ? — an  iron  age, 

When  Fact  with  heartless  search  explored 

Shall  be  Imagination's  Lord, 

And  sway  with  absolute  controul  5 

The  god-like  Functions  of  the  Soul. 

Not  thus  can  Knowledge  elevate 

Our  Nature  from  her  fallen  state. 

With  sober  Reason  Faith  unites 

To  vindicate  the  ideal  rights  10 

Of  Human -kind — the  true  agreeing 

Of  objects  with  internal  seeing, 

Of  effort  with  the  end  of  Being. 


[Composed  1836. — First  printed  1889.] 

THE  Ball  whizz'd  by, — it  grazed  his  ear, 

And  whispered  as  it  flew, 
'I  only  touch — not  take — don't  fear, 
For  both,  my  honest  Buccaneer ! 

Are  to  the  Pillory  due.' 



[Composed  March  1838. — First  printed  1889.] 

SAID  red-ribbon'd  Evans: 

"My  legions  in  Spain 

Were  at  sixes  and  sevens ; 

Now  they're  famished  or  slain ! 

But  no  fault  of  mine,  5 

For,  like  brave  Philip  Sidney, 

In  campaigning  I  shine, 

A  true  Knight  of  his  Kidney. 

Sound  flogging  and  fighting 

No  Chief,  on  my  troth,  10 

E'er  took  such  delight  in 

As  I  in  them  both. 

Fontarabbia  can  tell 

How  my  eyes  watched  the  foe, 

Hernani  knows  well  15 

That  our  feet  were  not  slow ; 

Our  hospitals,  too, 

They  are  matchless  in  story  ; 

Where  her  thousands  Fate  slew, 

All  panting  for  glory."  20 

Alas  for  this  Hero ! 

His  fame  touched  the  skies, 

Then  fell  below  Zero, 

Never,  never  to  rise ! 

For  him  to  Westminster  25 

Did  Prudence  convey, 

There  safe  as  a  Spinster 

The  Patriot  to  play. 

But  why  be  so  glib  on 

His  feats,  or  his  fall  ?  30 

He 's  got  his  red  ribbon, 

And  laughs  at  us  all. 


[Composed  1838.— First  printed  1851.] 

WOULDST  thou  be  gathered  to  Christ's  chosen  flock, 
Shun  the  broad  way  too  easily  explored, 
And  let  thy  path  be  hewn  out  of  the  Rock, 
The  living  Rock  of  God's  eternal  Word. 

XXX.     2  way]  path  MS. 

3-4  And  hew  thy  way  from  out  the  living  Rock, 

Established  upon  Earth,  the  eternal  Word.   MS. 



[Composed  1841  ?] 

LET  more  ambitious  Poets  take  the  heart 

By  storm,  my  Verse  would  rather  win  its  way 

With  gentle  violence  into  minds  well  pleased 

To  give  it  welcome  with  a  prompt  return 

Of  their  own  sweetness,  as  March  flowers  that  shrink          5 

From  the  sharp  wind  do  readily  yield  up 

Their  choicest  fragrance  to  a  southern  breeze, 

Ruffling  their  bosoms  with  its  genial  breath. 

[Composed  1841  ?] 

A  PBIZED  memorial  this  slight  work  may  prove 
As  bought  in  charity  and  given  in  Love. 


THOUGH  Pulpits  and  the  Desk  may  fail 
To  reach  the  hearts  of  worldly  men ; 
Yet  may  the  grace  of  God  prevail 
And  touch  them  through  the  Poet's  pen. 

BATH,  April  2Sth,  1841. 


[Composed  1842  ?— -Published  1842.] 

SHADE  of  Caractacus,  if  spirits  love 

The  cause  they  fought  for  in  their  earthly  home, 

To  see  the  Eagle  ruffled  by  the  Dove 

May  soothe  thy  memory  of  the  chains  of  Rome. 

These  children  claim  thee  for  their  sire ;  the  breath  5 

Of  thy  renown,  from  Cambrian  mountains,  fans 
A  flame  within  them  that  despises  death 
And  glorifies  the  truant  youth  of  Vannes. 

With  thy  own  scorn  of  tyrants  they  advance, 

But  truth  divine  has  sanctified  their  rage,  10 

A  silver  cross  enchased  with  Flowers  of  France 

Their  badge,  attests  the  holy  fight  they  wage. 

XXXI.  3-5  By  gentle  force  into  the  Mind  that  yields 

With  glad  compliance,  as  March  flowers  that  shrink  1st  draft 
6  sharp  .  .  .  yield  up]  fierce  .  .  .  give  out   1st  draft  7  choicest] 

sweetest  let  draft 


The  shrill  defiance  of  the  young  crusade 

Their  veteran  foes  mock  as  an  idle  noise ; 

But  unto  Faith  and  Loyalty  conies  aid  15 

From  Heaven,  gigantic  force  to  beardless  boys. 



[Composed  January  9,  1846. — First  printed  1876.] 

DEIGN,  Sovereign  Mistress !  to  accept  a  lay, 

No  laureate  offering  of  elaborate  art ; 
But  salutation  taking  its  glad  way 

From  deep  recesses  of  a  loyal  heart. 

Queen,  Wife  and  Mother!  may  All -judging  Heaven  5 

Shower  with  a  bounteous  hand  on  Thee  and  Thine 

Felicity  that  only  can  be  given 

On  earth  to  goodness  blest  by  grace  divine. 

Lady !  devoutly  honoured  and  beloved 

Through  every  realm  confided  to  thy  sway ;  10 

May'st  thou  pursue  thy  course  by  God  approved, 

And  He  will  teach  thy  people  to  obey. 

As  thou  art  wont,  thy  sovereignty  adorn 

With  woman's  gentleness,  yet  firm  and  staid ; 

So  shall  that  earthly  crown  thy  brows  have  worn  15 

Be  changed  for  one  whose  glory  cannot  fade. 

And  now  by  duty  urged,  I  lay  this  Book 

Before  thy  Majesty,  in  humble  trust 
That  on  its  simplest  pages  thou  wilt  look 

With  a  benign  indulgence  more  than  just.  20 

Nor  wilt  thou  blame  the  Poet's  earnest  prayer 
That  issuing  hence  may  steal  into  thy  mind 

Some  solace  under  weight  of  royal  care, 
Or  grief — the  inheritance  of  humankind. 

For  know  we  not  that  from  celestial  spheres,  25 

When  Time  was  young,  an  inspiration  came 
(Oh  were  it  mine!)  to  hallow  saddest  tears, 
And  help  life  onward  in  its  noblest  aim. 

your  Majesty's 

devoted  Subject  and  Servant 
William  Wordsworth 






[Composed  1847.— Published  1847.] 

FOB  thirst  of  power  that  Heaven  disowns, 

For  temples,  towers,  and  thrones 
Too  long  insulted  by  the  Spoiler's  shock, 

Indignant  Europe  cast 

Her  stormy  foe  at  last  5 

To  reap  the  whirlwind  on  a  Libyan  rock. 

War  is  passion's  basest  game 
4    Madly  played  to  win  a  name : 
Up  starts  some  tyrant,  Earth  and  Heaven  to  dare, 

The  servile  million  bow ;  10 

But  will  the  Lightning  glance  aside  to  spare 

The  Despot's  laurelled  brow  ? 

War  is  mercy,  glory,  fame, 

Waged  in  Freedom's  holy  cause, 

Freedom,  such  as  man  may  claim  15 

Under  God's  restraining  laws. 

Such  is  Albion's  fame  and  glory, 

Let  rescued  Europe  tell  the  story. 
But  lo !  what  sudden  cloud  has  darkened  all 

The  land  as  with  a  funeral  pall  ?  ao 

The  Rose  of  England  suffers  blight, 
The  Flower  has  drooped,  the  Isle's  delight ; 

Flower  and  bud  together  fall ; 
A  Nation's  Jiopes  lie  crushed  in  Claremont's  desolate  Hall. 

Time  a  chequered  mantle  wears —  25 

Earth  awakes  from  wintry  sleep : 
Again  the  Tree  a  blossom  bears ; 

Cease,  Britannia,  cease  to  weep  I 
Hark  to  the  peals  on  this  bright  May -morn ! 
They  tell  that  your  future  Queen  is  born.  30 

A  Guardian  Angel  fluttered 

Above  the  babe,  unseen ; 

One  word  he  softly  uttered, 

It  named  the  future  Queen ; 


And  a  joyful  cry  through  the  Island  rang,  35 

As  clear  and  bold  as  the  trumpet's  clang, 

As  bland  as  the  reed  of  peace : 
"VICTORIA  be  her  name!" 

For  righteous  triumphs  are  the  base 
Whereon  Britannia  rests  her  peaceful  fame.  40 

Time,  in  his  mantle's  sunniest  fold 
Uplifted  in  his  arms  the  child, 
And  while  the  fearless  infant  smiled, 
Her  happier  destiny  foretold: — 

"Infancy,  by  Wisdom  mild,  45 

Trained  to  health  and  artless  beauty ; 

Youth,  by  pleasure  unbeguiled 

From  the  lore  of  lofty  duty ; 

Womanhood  in  pure  renown, 

Seated  on  her  lineal  throne ;  50 

Leaves  of  myrtle  in  her  Crown, 

Fresh  with  lustre  all  their  own. 

Love,  the  treasure  worth  possessing 

More  than  all  the  world  beside, 

This  shall  be  her  choicest  blessing,  55 

Oft  to  royal  hearts  denied." 

That  eve,  the  Star  of  Brunswick  shone 

With  steadfast  ray  benign 
On  Gotha's  ducal  roof,  and  on 

The  softly  flowing  Leine,  60 

Nor  failed  to  gild  the  spires  of  Bonn, 

And  glittered  on  tho  Rhine. 
Old  Camus,  too,  on  that  prophetic  night 

Was  conscious  of  the  ray ; 
And  his  willows  whispered  in  its  light,  65 

Not  to  the  Zephyr's  sway, 
But  with  a  Delphic  life,  in  sight 

Of  this  auspicious  day — 
This  day,  when  Granta  hails  her  chosen  Lord, 

And,  proud  of  her  award,  70 

Confiding  in  that  Star  serene, 
Welcomes  the  Consort  of  a  happy  Queen. 

Prince,  in  these  collegiate  bowers, 

Where  science,  leagued  with  holier  truth, 

Guards  the  sacred  heart  of  youth,  75 

Solemn  monitors  are  ours. 


These  reverend  aisles,  these  hallowed  towers, 
Raised  by  many  a  hand  august, 
Are  haunted  by  majestic  Powers, 

The  Memories  of  the  Wise  and  Just,  80 

Who,  faithful  to  a  pious  trust, 
Here,  in  the  Founder's  Spirit  sought 
To  mould  and  stamp  the  ore  of  thought 
In  that  bold  form  and  impress  high 

That  best  betoken  patriot  loyalty.  85 

Not  in  vain  those  Sages  taught, — 
True  disciples,  good  as  great, 
Have  pondered  here  their  country's  weal, 
Weighed  the  Future  by  the  Past, 

Learned  how  social  frames  may  last,  90 

And  how  a  Land  may  rule  its  fate 
By  constancy  inviolate, 
Though  worlds  to  their  foundations  reel 
The  sport  of  factious  Hate  or  godless  Zeal. 

Albert,  in  thy  race  we  cherish  95 

A  Nation's  strength  that  will  not  perish 

While  England's  sceptred  Line 

True  to  the  King  of  Kings  is  found ; 

Like  that  wise  ancestor  of  thine 

Who  threw  the  Saxon  shield  o'er  Luther's  life  100 

When  first,  above  the  yells  of  bigot  strife, 

The  trumpet  of  the  Living  Word 
Assumed  a  voice  of  deep  portentous  sound, 
From  gladdened  Elbe  to  startled  Tiber  heard. 

What  shield  more  sublime  105 

E'er  was  blazoned  or  sung  ? 

And  the  PRINCE  whom  we  greet 

From  its  Hero  is  sprung. 

Resound,  resound  the  strain 

That  hailg  him  for  our  own!  no 

Again,  again,  and  yet  again, 
For  the  Church,  the  State,  the  Throne! 
And  that  Presence  fair  and  bright, 
Ever  blest  wherever  seen, 

Who  deigns  to  grace  our  festal  rite,  115 

The  Pride  of  the  Islands,  VICTORIA  THE  QUEEN! 



The  first  eight  of  these  Poems  were  printed,  under  this  title,  in 
Yarrow  Revisited  and  other  Poems  (1835).  Only  one  of  them  (No. 
VIII)  had  appeared  before.  To  these  was  added  a  ninth,  never  re- 
printed, on  which  v.  note  to  No.  VIII  infra.  Nos.  IX,  XII,  and  XIII 
were  added  to  the  series  in  1837,  Nos.  X  and  XI  in  1845,  and  the  rest 
in  1850. 

p.  1.  I.  It  will  be  noted,  from  the  app.  crit.9  that  the  first  version 
of  the  poem  (a  fair  copy  written  by  Dora  W.)  was  much  shorter.  The 
added  lines  W.  wrote  several  times — in  one  copy  of  them,  after  11.  20, 
21  in  their  final  form,  occurs  the  couplet: 

While  the  Rooks  homeward  wend, — compact  yet  spread, 
Like  a  large  cloud  they  cross  the  mountain's  head. 

lines  were  composed  on  the  road  between  Moresby  and  Whitehaven 
while  I  was  on  a  visit  to  my  Son,  then  Rector  of  the  former  place. 
This  [and  some  other  Voluntaries]  originated  in  the  concluding  lines 
of  the  last  paragraph  of  this  Poem.  With  this  coast  I  have  been 
familiar  from  my  earliest  childhood,  and  remember  being  struck  for 
the  first  time  by  the  town  and  port  of  Whitehaven,  and  the  white 
waves  breaking  against  its  quays  and  piers,  as  the  whole  came  into 
view  from  the  top  of  the  high  ground  down  which  the  road  (it  has 
since  been  altered)  then  descended  abruptly.  My  sister,  when  she 
first  heard  the  voice  of  the  sea  from  this  point,  and  beheld  the  scene 
spread  before  her,  burst  into  tears.  Our  family  then  lived  at  Cocker- 
mouth,  and  this  fact  was  often  mentioned  among  us  as  indicating  the 
sensibility  for  which  she  was  so  remarkable." — I.  F. 

p.  3.  III.  BY  THE  SEASIDE:  The  statement  in  the  MS.  that  the 
poem  was  written  at  Moresby  after  a  storm  enables  us  to  date  it 
March-April,  for  in  March  1833  W.  was  on  a  visit  to  his  son  there 
(v.  L.Y.,  pp.  644-7). 

39.  "our  thoughts  are  heard  in  heaven":  From  Young,  Night 
Thoughts*  ii.  95. 

p.  4.  IV.  Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life:  "The  lines  following 
'nor  do  words'  [1.  7]  were  written  with  Lord  Byron's  character,  as  a 
Poet,  before  me,  and  that  of  others,  his  contemporaries,  who  wrote 
under  like  influences." — I.  F. 

It  will  be  noted  that  in  the  first  version  (MS.  1)  of  the  poem  there  is 
nothing  to  correspond  with  11.  7—19. 

17-23.  O  Nature  . . .  pensive  hearts  .  .  .  every  charm]  Reminiscent 
of  Burns,  To  William  Simpson,  xiii,  xiv:  cf.  especially  the  couplet 
O  Nature,  a1  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms, 

396  NOTES 

which  W.  quotes  in  his  letter  on  the  Kendal  and  Windermere  Railway 
(Grosart,  ii.  331). 

20-31.   app.  crit.    v.  note  to  VII,  infra. 

p.  7.  VI.  1-4.  Soft  as  a  cloud :  What  looks  like  a  first  draft  of 
these  lines  occurs  in  a  MS.  among  other  scraps: 

No  cloud  seems  softer  than  yon  pale  blue  hill, 
The  gleaming  waters  how  profoundly  still 

p.  8.  VII.  The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill:  "Com- 
posed by  the  side  of  Grasmere  Lake.  The  mountains  that  enclose 
the  vale,  especially  towards  Easedale,  are  most  favourable  to  the  re- 
verberation of  sound.  There  is  a  passage  in  The  Excursion,  towards 
the  close  of  the  fourth  Book,  where  the  voice  of  the  raven  in  flight 
is  traced  through  the  modifications  it  undergoes,  as  I  have  often  heard 
it  in  that  vale  and  others  of  this  district. 

'Often,  at  the  hour 

When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  stars,  is  heard, 

Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge 

One  voice — the  solitary  raven.'  " — I.  F. 

1-13.  In  one  MS.  these  lines  form  the  first  part  of  a  poem  headed 
Twilight,  of  which  the  last  lines  are  a  first  draft  of  IV,  supra,  11.  20-31 ; 
v.  app.  crit. 

p.  9.  VIII.  The  sun  has  long  been  set:  In  1807  one  of  the  Moods  of 
my  own  Mind.  W.  (edd.  1845,  1850)  misdated  the  poem  1804,  the 
correct  date  is  given  in  D.  W.'s  Journals.  "Keprinted  at  the  request 
of  my  Sister,  in  whose  presence  the  lines  were  thrown  off." — I.  F.  In 
1836  the  note  prefixed  to  this  poem  ran:  "The  former  of  the  two 
following  Pieces  appeared,  many  years  ago,  among  the  Author's 
poems,  from  which,  in  subsequent  editions,  it  was  excluded.  It  is 
here  reprinted,  at  the  request  of  a  friend  who  was  present  when  the 
lines  were  thrown  off  as  an  impromptu. 

"For  printing  the  latter,  some  reason  should  be  given,  as  not  a  word 
of  it  is  original :  it  is  simply  a  fine  stanza  of  Akenside,  connected  with 
a  still  finer  from  Beattie,  by  a  couplet  of  Thomson.  This  practice, 
in  which  the  author  sometimes  indulges,  of  linking  together,  in  his 
own  mind,  favourite  passages  from  different  authors,  seems  in  itself 
unobjectionable:  but,  as  the  publishing  such  compilations  might  lead 
to  confusion  in  literature,  he  should  deem  himself  inexcusable  in 
giving  this  specimen,  were  it  not  from  a  hope  that  it  might  open  to 
others  a  harmless  source  of  private  gratification." 

The  poem  referred  to,  not  republished  after  the  1835  ed.,  ran: 

Throned  in  the  Sun's  descending  car 

What  Power  unseen  diffuses  far 

This  tenderness  of  mind  ? 

What  Genius  smiles  on  yonder  flood  ? 

What  God  in  whispers  from  the  wood  5 

Bids  every  thought  be  kind  ? 

NOTES  397 

O  ever  pleasing  Solitude, 
Companion  of  the  wise  and  good, 
Thy  shades,  thy  silence,  now  be  mine, 

Thy  charms  my  only  theme ;  10 

My  haunt  the  hollow  cliff  whose  Pine 

Waves  o'er  the  gloomy  stream ; 
Whence  the  scared  Owl  on  pinions  grey 

Breaks  from  the  rustling  boughs, 
And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away  15 

To  more  profound  repose ! 

11.  1-6  are  from  Akenside's  Ode  Against  Suspicion,  viii ;  11.  7,  8  from 
the  opening  of  Thomson's  Hymn  on  Solitude,  1,  2;  11.  9-16  from 
Beattie's  Retirement :,  41-8.  All  three  passages  are  included  in  the 
Poems  and  Extracts  chosen  by  W.  W.  for  an  Album  presented  to  Lady 
Mary  Lowther,  Christmas ,  1819. 

10-11.  "Parading"  .  .  .  ' 'masquerading"]  From  Burns,  The  Two 
Dogs,  124-5: 

At  operas  an'  plays  parading 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading. 

13/14.  app.  crit.  W.  used  the  last  two  of  these  lines  in  IV,  supra, 
11.  20,  21. 

SPLENDOUR  AND  BEAUTY:  "Felt  and  in  a  great  measure  composed 
upon  the  little  mount  in  front  of  our  abode  at  Rydal.  In  concluding 
my  notices  of  this  class  of  Poems  it  may  be  as  well  to  observe  that 
among  the  'Miscellaneous  Sonnets'  are  a  few  alluding  to  morning 
impressions  which  might  be  read  with  mutual  benefit  in  connection 
with  these  'Evening  Voluntaries'.  See,  for  example,  that  one  on 
Westminster  Bridge,  that  1st  on  May,  2nd  on  the  song  of  the  Thrush, 
and  the  one  beginning — 'While  beams  of  orient  light  etc.' " — I.  F. 
Before  1837  this  poem  was  placed  among  Poems  of  the  Imagination. 

49,  Wings  at  my  shoulder  seemed  to  play]  In  these  lines  I  am  under 
obligation  to  the  exquisite  picture  of  "Jacob's  Dream",  by  Mr. 
Alstone,  now  in  America.  It  is  pleasant  to  make  this  public  acknow- 
ledgment to  a  man  of  genius,  whom  I  have  the  honour  to  rank  among 
my  friends. — W. 

p.  13.  X.  COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEASHOBE:  "These  lines  were  sug- 
gested during  my  residence  under  my  Son's  roof  at  Moresby,  on  the 
coast  near  Whitehaven,  at  the  time  when  I  was  composing  those 
verses  among  the  'Evening  Voluntaries'  that  have  reference  to  the 
sea.  It  was  in  that  neighbourhood  I  first  became  acquainted  with 
the  ocean  and  its  appearances  and  movements.  My  infancy  and  early 
childhood  were  passed  at  Cockermouth,  about  eight  miles  from  the 
coast,  and  I  well  remember  that  mysterious  awe  with  which  I  used 
to  listen  to  anything  said  about  storms  and  shipwrecks.  Sea-shells 

398  NOTES 

of  many  descriptions  were  common  in  the  town ;  and  I  was  not  a 
little  surprised  when  I  heard  that  Mr.  Landor  had  denounced  me  as 
a  plagiarist  from  himself  for  having  described  a  boy  applying  a  sea- 
shell  to  his  ear  and  listening  to  it  for  intimations  of  what  was  going 
on  in  its  native  element.  This  I  had  done  myself  scores  of  times,  and 
it  was  a  belief  among  us  that  we  could  know  from  the  sound  whether 
the  tide  was  ebbing  or  flowing." — I.  F.  Cf.  note  to  III,  supra. 

p.  14.  XI.  The  Crescent  Moon,  etc.:  The  date  of  composition  is 
given  on  the  MS. 

p.  14.  XII.  To  THE  MOON  :  An  early  draft  is  preserved  in  the  Crabb 
Robinson  Collection  at  Dr.  Williams 's  Library,  of  which  the  following 
is  a  transcription : 

What  fond  affections  on  the  name  attend 

Which  calls  thee,  gentle  Moon !  the  Sailor's  Friend ! 

So  calls  thee  not  alone  for  what  the  sky 

Through  mist  or  cloud  permits  thee  to  supply 

(As  from  a  moving  watchtower)  of  wan  light  5 

To  guide  his  Bark  through  perils  of  the  night, 

But  for  thy  private  bounties ;  for  that  meek 

And  tender  influence  of  which  few  will  speak 

Though  it  can  wet  with  tears  the  hardiest  cheek. 

Say,  is  there  One  (Breathes  there  a  Man)  of  all  whose  business  lies 

On  the  great  deep  cut  off  (waters  far)  from  household  ties,  n 

A  Man  endowed  with  human  sympathies, 

Who  has  not  felt  the  fulness  of  thy  sway 

To  cherish  thoughts  that  shun  the  blaze  of  day, 

The  soft  (true)  accordance  of  thy  placid  chear  15 

With  all  that  pensive  memory  holds  most  dear 

Or  Fancy  pictures  forth  to  soothe  a  breast 

(That  asks  not  happiness  but  longs  for  rest !) 

Tired  with  its  daily  share  of  eaprth's  unrest  ?] 

And  [?  as]  the  lifelong  wanderer  o*er  the  seas  20 

Steers  his  [?]  ship  (Runs  a  smooth  course)  before  a  steady  breeze 

While  he  keeps  watch  in  some  far  distant  clime, 

Dull  darkness  (Thy  absence)  adding  to  the  weight  of  time, 

Oft.  does  thy  image  with  his  memory  blend 

And  thou  art  still,  O  Moon,  the  Sailor's  (Poet's)  Friend.  25 

Who  when  he  marks  thee  bright  as  when  of  yore 

Whole  nations  knelt  thy  presence  to  adore 

Beholds  the[e]  (girt)  crossed  by  clouds  that  slowly  move 

Catching  the  lustre  they  in  part  reprove 

Nor  felt  the  fitness  of  thy  modest  sway  30 

To  cherish  the  thought  that  shuns  the  blaze  of  day. 

1-2  Cf.  XII.  11-12  6-7  Cf.  ib.  16-17  16-18,  29-30  ib.  66-9 

24-6  ib.  70-3  26-7  Cf.  app.  crit.  of  XIII.  1-4  28-9  Cf. 

XII.  36-6 

NOTES  399 

10—11.  on  this  sea -beat  shore  Sole -sitting]  Of.  Poems  on  Naming 
of  Places,  iv.  38.  Sole-sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance. 

63-4.  And  when  thy  beauty  .  .  .  monthly  grave]  Cf.  Written  in  a 
Orotto,  4,  "When  thou  art  hidden  in  thy  monthly  grave,"  and  note 
Vol.  Ill,  pp.  413  and  575. 

K.  gives  some  lines  as  "written  by  W.  in  a  copy  of  his  works  after 
the  lines  To  the  Moon,  XIII.  They  may  have  been  intended  as  a 
sequel  to  them": 

And  O  dear  soother  of  the  pensive  breast, 

Let  homelier  words  without  offence  attest 

How  where  on  random  topics  as  they  hit 

The  moment's  humour,  rough  Tars  spend  their  wit, 

Thy  changes,  which  to  wiser  Spirits  seem  5 

Dark  as  a  riddle,  prove  a  favorite  theme ; 

Thy  motions  intricate  and  manifold 

Oft  help  to  make  bold  fancy's  flights  more  bold, 

Beget  strange  theories  and  to  freaks  give  birth 

Of  speech  as  wild  as  ever  heightened  mirth.  10 

The  lines  are  to  be  found  in  C.,  Lord  Coleridge's  copy  of  Wordsworth's 
Poems  1836,  written  by  M.  W.  in  the  blank  space  after  XIII  To  the 
Moon,  but  clearly  intended  by  the  tally -mark  to  follow  the  close  of 

p.  16.  XIII.  To  THE  MOON  (RYDAL)  :  The  variant  of  11.  1-4,  given 
in  the  app.  crit.,  is  a  passage  deleted  from  the  draft  of  the  previous 
poem  (v.  supra). 

50.  To  look  on  tempests,  etc.]  Shakespeare,  Sonnete,  cxvi.  6. 

p.  18.  XIV.  To  LUCCA  GIORDANO:  Lucca  Giordano  (1632-1705) 
of  Naples,  one  of  the  most  prolific  of  artists,  of  no  originality,  but 
great  imitative  and  mechanical  skill.  The  picture,  brought  by  the 
poet's  eldest  son  from  Italy,  hung  on  the  staircase  at  Rydal  Mount, 
v.  M.  I.  28. 

p.  18.  XIV  and  XV.  The  dates  of  these  sonnets  are  given  on  the 

p.  19.  XVI.  Where  lies  the  truth,  etc.]  Suggested,  as  W.  told  Pro- 
fessor Reed  in  a  letter  dated  Jan.  23,  1846  (v.  M.  ii.  423),  by  the 
deaths  of  his  grandson  and  his  nephew  John,  and  the  imminent  death 
of  his  brother  Christopher. 

7-8.  Larks  . . .  bid  the  Sun  good  morrow]  An  obvious  reminiscence 
of  L*  Allegro,  41,  46. 

IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  1833 

In  Yarrow  Revisited  (1835),  in  which  this  series  was  first  printed, 
Nos.  XI  and  XL VI  were  placed  in  another  part  of  the  volume,  and 
XXVII  and  XLIII,  which  had  been  published  in  the  1827  ed.,  were 

400  NOTES 

omitted.  Fancy  and  Tradition  (VoL  III,  p.  277),  originally  XXXVI 
of  the  series,  was  in  1837  transferred  to  its  present  place.  "My 
companions  were  H.  C.  Robinson  and  my  son  John." — I.  F. 

p.  20.  II.  3-8.  Cf.  Guide  to  the  Lakes  (ed.  E.  de  S.),  p.  74:  "Anti- 
quity .  .  .  may  be  styled  the  co -partner  or  sister  of  Nature  ...  I  have 
already  spoken  of  the  beautiful  forms  of  the  ancient  mansions  of  this 
country,  and  of  the  happy  manner  in  which  they  harmonize  with  the 
forms  of  Nature."  For  W.'s  ideas  about  the  laying-out  of  grounds  cf. 
his  letter  to  Sir  G.  Beaumont,  E.  L.,  p.  522. 

14.  The  final  reading  was  adopted  on  the  suggestion  of  Barron 
Field  in  a  letter  dated  Nov.  21,  1839. 

p.  21.  IV.  To  THE  RIVEB  GBETA:  7.  But  if  thou,  like  Cocytus] 
Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  at  Greta  Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  the 
hostess  of  the  inn,  proud  of  her  skill  in  etymology,  said  that  "the 
name  of  the  river  was  taken  from  the  bridget  the  form  of  which,  as 
every  one  must  notice,  exactly  resembled  a  great  A".  Dr.  Whitaker 
has  derived  it  from  the  word  of  common  occurrence  in  the  North  of 
England,  "to  greet";  signifying  to  lament  aloud,  mostly  with  weeping, 
a  conjecture  rendered  more  probable  from  the  stony  and  rocky 
channel  of  both  the  Cumberland  and  Yorkshire  rivers.  The  Cumber- 
land Greta,  though  it  does  not,  among  the  country  people,  take  up 
that  name  till  within  three  miles  of  its  disappearance  in  the  River 
Derwent,  may  be  considered  as  having  its  source  in  the  mountain 
cove  of  Wythburn,  and  flowing  through  Thirlmere,  the  beautiful 
features  of  which  lake  are  known  only  to  those  who,  travelling 
between  Grasmere  and  Keswick,  have  quitted  the  main  road  in  the 
vale  of  Wythburn,  and,  crossing  over  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake, 
have  proceeded  with  it  on  the  right  hand. 

The  channel  of  the  Greta,  immediately  above  Keswick,  has,  for 
the  purposes  of  building,  been  in  a  great  measure  cleared  of  the 
immense  stones  which,  by  their  concussion  in  high  floods,  produced 
the  loud  and  awful  noises  described  in  the  sonnet. 

"The  scenery  upon  this  river,"  says  Mr.  Southey  in  his  Colloquies, 
"where  it  passes  under  the  woody  side  of  Latrigg,  is  of  the  finest  and 
most  rememberable  kind: — 

ambiguo  lapsu  refluitque  fluitque, 

Occurrensque  sibi  venturas  aspicit  undas. — W." 

Dowden  compares  a  letter  from  Coleridge  to  Humphry  Davy  of 
Oct.  9,  1800:  "Greta,  or  rather  Grieta,  is  exactly  the  Cocytus  of  the 
Greeks ;  the  word,  literally  rendered  in  modern  English,  is  The  Loud 
Lamenter';  to  griet,  in  the  Cumbrian  dialect,  signifying  to  roar 
aloud  for  grief  or  pain,  and  it  does  roar  with  a  vengeance." 

p.  22.  V.  To  THE  RIVEB  DEBWENT:  This  sonnet  has  already 
appeared  in  several  editions  of  the  author's  poems ;  but  he  is  tempted 
to  reprint  it  in  this  place,  as  a  natural  introduction  to  the  two  that 

NOTES  401 

follow  it. — W.  1836.  It  first  appeared,  in  1819,  with  The  Waggoner, 
and  was  republished  in  the  1820-32  editions,  among  the  Miscellaneous 

1-4.]  Cf.  Prelude,  i.  269-81. 

10.  Nemean]   The  Nemean  games  were  held  in  alternate  years  in 
the  grove  surrounding  the  temple  of  Zeus  Nemea,  which  was  situated 
in  the  valley  of  Nemea  in  Argolis,  celebrated  as  the  place  where 
Hercules  slew  the  lion. 

p.  22.  VI.  IN  SIGHT  OF  THE  TOWN  OF  COCKEBMOUTH  :  2.  my 
buried  Little -ones]  Catharine  (died  June  4,  1812)  and  Thomas  (died 
Dec.  1,  1812),  buried  in  Grasmere  churchyard. 

p.  23.  VIII.  NUN'S  WELL,  BRIGHAM:  "So  named  from  the  Re- 
ligious House  which  stood  close  by.  I  have  rather  an  odd  anecdote 
bo  relate  of  the  Nun's  Well.  One  day  the  Landlady  of  a  public -house, 
a  field's  length  from  the  well,  on  the  road  side,  said  to  me — 'You 
have  been  to  see  the  Nun's  Well,  Sir?' — 'The  Nun's  Well!  what  is 
that  ?'  said  the  Postman,  who  in  his  royal  livery  stopt  his  Mail-car 
at  the  door.  The  Landlady  and  I  explained  to  him  what  the  name 
meant,  and  what  sort  of  people  the  Nuns  were.  A  countryman  who 
was  standing  by,  rather  tipsy,  stammered  out — 'Aye,  those  Nuns 
were  good  people ;  they  are  gone ;  but  we  shall  soon  have  them  back 
again.'  The  Reform  mania  was  just  then  at  its  height." — I.  F. 

11.  By  hooded  Votaresses]  Attached  to  the  church  of  Brigham 
was  formerly  a  chantry,  which  held  a  moiety  of  the  manor ;  and  in 
the  decayed  parsonage  some  vestiges  of  monastic  architecture  are 
still  to  be  seen. — W. 

14.    "too  soft  a  tear"]  Pope,  Eloise  to  Abelard,  270: 

Thy  voice  I  seem  in  ev'ry  hymn  to  hear ; 
With  ev'ry  bead  I  drop  too  soft  a  tear. 

p.  24.  IX.  To  A  FRIEND:  "Pastor  and  Patriot",  "My  son  John, 
who  was  then  building  a  Parsonage  on  his  small  living  at  Brigham." 
— I.  F.  "Were  you  ever  told  that  my  Son  is  building  a  parsonage 
house  upon  a  small  Living,  to  which  he  was  lately  presented  by  the 
Earl  of  Lonsdale  ?  The  situation  is  beautiful,  commanding  the 
windings  of  the  Derwent  both  above  and  below  the  site  of  the  House ; 
the  mountain  Skiddaw  terminating  the  view  one  way,  at  a  distance 
of  6  miles — and  the  ruins  of  Cockermouth  Castle  appearing  nearly  in 
the  centre  of  the  same  view.  In  consequence  of  some  discouraging 
thoughts — expressed  by  my  Son  when  he  had  entered  upon  this 
undertaking,  I  addressed  to  him  the  following  Sonnet,  which  you  may 
perhaps  read  with  some  interest  at  the  present  crisis." — W.  to  Lady 
Beaumont  (L.Y.  pp.  690-1).  And  Dora  W.  wrote  to  E.  Q.  in  Feb. 
1834,  sending  him  the  sonnet:  "addressed  to  John  whose  spirit  failed 
him  somewhat  on  finding  he  should  be  obliged  to  lay  out  so  much 
money  on  his  parsonage  which  might  be  taken  from  him  any  day  by 

917.17  IV  D  d 

402  NOTES 

the  reformed  Parliament ;  but  it  will  do  for  any  poor  parson  who  is 
building  for  his  parish." 

p.  24.  X.  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS:  "The  fears  and  impatience  of 
Mary  were  so  great,"  says  Robertson,  "that  she  got  into  a  fisherboat, 
and  with  about  twenty  attendants  landed  at  Workington,  in  Cumber- 
land ;  and  thence  she  was  conducted  with  many  marks  of  respect  to 
Carlisle."  The  apartment  in  which  the  Queen  had  slept  at  Working- 
ton  Hall  (where  she  was  received  by  Sir  Henry  Curwen  as  became  her 
rank  and  misfortunes)  was  long  preserved,  out  of  respect  to  her 
memory,  as  she  had  left  it;  and  one  cannot  but  regret  that  some 
necessary  alterations  in  the  mansion  could  not  be  effected  without 
its  destruction. — W. 

5.  "Bright  as  a  Star"  (v.  app.  crit.).  "I  will  mention  for  the  sake  of 
the  Friend  who  is  writing  down  these  notes,  that  it  was  among  the  fine 
Scotch  firs  near  Ambleside,  and  particularly  those  near  Green  Bank, 
that  I  have  over  and  over  again  paused  at  the  sight  of  this  image. 
Long  may  they  stand  to  afford  a  like  gratification  to  others ! — This 
wish  is  not  uncalled  for,  several  of  their  brethren  having  already 
disappeared." — I.  F. 

HEADS  :  St.  Bees'  Heads,  anciently  called  the  Cliff  of  Baruth,  are  a 
conspicuous  sea-mark  for  all  vessels  sailing  in  the  N.E.  parts  of  the 
Irish  Sea.  In  a  bay,  one  side  of  which  is  formed  by  the  southern 
headland,  stands  the  village  of  St.  Bees ;  a  place  distinguished,  from 
very  early  times,  for  its  religious  and  scholastic  foundations. 

"St.  Bees,"  say  Nicholson  and  Burns,  "had  its  name  from  Bega, 
an  holy  woman  from  Ireland,  who  is  said  to  have  founded  here, 
about  the  year  of  our  Lord  650,  a  small  monastery,  where  afterwards 
a  church  was  built  in  memory  of  her. 

"The  aforesaid  religious  house,  being  destroyed  by  the  Danes,  was 
restored  by  William  de  Meschiens,  son  of  Ranulph,  and  brother  of 
Ranulph  de  Meschiens,  first  Earl  of  Cumberland  after  the  Conquest ; 
and  made  a  cell  of  a  prior  and  six  Benedictine  monks  to  the  Abbey 
of  St.  Mary  at  York." 

Several  traditions  of  miracles,  connected  with  the  foundation  of 
the  first  of  these  religious  houses,  survive  among  the  people  of  the 
neighbourhood ;  one  of  which  is  alluded  to  in  these  Stanzas ;  and 
another,  of  a  somewhat  bolder  and  more  peculiar  character,  has 
furnished  the  subject  of  a  spirited  poem  by  the  Bev.  R.  Parkinson, 
M.A.,  late  Divinity  Lecturer  of  St.  Bees'  College,  and  now  Fellow  of 
the  Collegiate  Church  of  Manchester. 

After  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  Archbishop  Grindal 
founded  a  free  school  at  St.  Bees,  from  which  the  counties  of  Cumber- 
land and  Westmoreland  have  derived  great  benefit;  and  recently, 
under  the  patronage  of  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  a  college  has  been 
established  there  for  the  education  of  ministers  for  the  English 

NOTES  403 

Church.  The  old  Conventual  Church  has  been  repaired  under  the 
superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ainger,  the  Head  of  the  College ;  and 
is  well  worthy  of  being  visited  by  any  strangers  who  might  be  led  to 
the  neighbourhood  of  this  celebrated  spot. 

The  form  of  stanza  in  this  Poem,  and  something  in  the  style  of 
versification,  are  adopted  from  the  "St.  Monica",  a  poem  of  much 
beauty  upon  a  monastic  subject,  by  Charlotte  Smith:  a  lady  to  whom 
English  verse  is  under  greater  obligations  than  are  likely  to  be  either 
acknowledged  or  remembered.  She  wrote  little,  and  that  little  un- 
ambitiously,  but  with  true  feeling  for  rural  nature,  at  a  time  when 
nature  was  not  much  regarded  by  English  Poets ;  for  in  point  of  time 
her  earlier  writings  preceded,  I  believe,  those  of  Cowper  and  Burns. 
— W. 

The  poem  was  printed  with  F.  W.  Faber's  Life  of  St.  Bega  in  Lives 
of  the  English  Saints,  1844  (edited  by  J.  H.  Newman)  with  a  prefatory 
note  by  Faber :  "By  the  kind  permission  of  the  author,  we  are  allowed 
to  reprint  entire  Mr.  W.'s  beautiful  stanzas  on  St.  Bees,  written,  be 
it  observed,  so  long  ago  as  1833.  The  date  is  noticed  as  giving  a 
fresh  instance  of  the  remarkable  way  in  which  his  poems  did  in  divers 
places  anticipate  the  revival  of  catholic  doctrines  among  us.  When 
anyone  considers  the  tone  of  sneering  which  was  almost  universal  in 
English  authors  when  treating  of  a  religious  past  with  which  they  did 
not  sympathize,  the  tone  of  these  verses  is  very  striking  indeed,  the 
more  striking  since  Mr.  W.'s  works  prove  him  to  be  very  little  in 
sympathy  with  Roman  doctrine  on  the  whole.  Yet  the  affectionate 
reverence  for  the  catholic  past,  the  humble  consciousness  of  a  loss 
sustained  by  ourselves,  the  readiness  to  put  a  good  construction  on 
what  he  cannot  wholly  receive,  are  in  this  poem  in  very  edifying 
contrast  with  even  the  half  irreverent  sportiveness  of  Mr.  Southey's 
pen  when  employed  on  similar  subject-matters.  .  .  .  The  reader 
acquainted  with  Mr.  W.'s  poems  will  find  an  alteration  in  the  last 
stanza ;  it  has  been  printed  as  it  is  here  given  at  the  request  of  the 
author  himself."  For  the  letter  to  Faber,  dated  6  Aug.  1844,  in  which 
W.  made  this  request  v.  L.Y.,  p.  1218.  For  the  alteration  v.  app. 
wit.  156-9. 

37.  Cruel  of  heart,  etc.}  Cf.  King  Lear,  HI.  iv.  95,  "false  of  heart, 
ight  of  ear,  bloody  of  hand". 

73.  Are  not,  in  sooth,  etc.]  I  am  aware  that  I  am  here  treading  upon 
lender  ground ;  but  to  the  intelligent  reader  I  feel  that  no  apology  is 
lue.  The  prayers  of  survivors,  during  passionate  grief  for  the  recent 
oss  of  relatives  and  friends,  as  the  object  of  those  prayers  could  no 
onger  be  the  suffering  body  of  the  dying,  would  naturally  be  ejacu- 
ated  for  the  souls  of  the  departed;  the  barriers  between  the  two 
worlds  dissolving  before  the  power  of  love  and  faith.  The  ministers 
>f  religion,  from  their  habitual  attendance  upon  sick-beds,  would  be 
laily  witnesses  of  these  benign  results,  and  hence  would  be  strongly 

404  NOTES 

tempted  to  aim  at  giving  to  them  permanence,  by  embodying  them 
in  rites  and  ceremonies,  recurring  at  stated  periods.  All  this,  as  it  was 
in  course  of  nature,  so  was  it  blameless,  and  even  praiseworthy ;  since 
some  of  its  effects,  in  that  rude  state  of  society,  could  not  but  be 
salutary.  No  reflecting  person,  however,  can  view  without  sorrow  the 
abuses  which  rose  out  of  thus  formalising  sublime  instincts,  and  dis- 
interested movements  of  passion,  and  perverting  them  into  means  of 
gratifying  the  ambition  and  rapacity  of  the  priesthood.  But,  while 
we  deplore  and  are  indignant  at  these  abuses,  it  would  be  a  great 
mistake  if  we  imputed  the  origin  of  the  offices  to  prospective  selfish- 
ness on  the  part  of  the  monks  and  clergy :  they  were  at  first  sincere  in 
their  sympathy,  and  in  their  degree  dupes  rather  of  their  own  creed, 
than  artful  and  designing  men.  Charity  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  safest 
guide  that  we  can  take  in  judging  our  fellow-men,  whether  of  past 
ages,  or  of  the  present  time. — W. 

94.  Staff  and  cockle  hat  and  sandal  shoon]  From  Ophelia's  song, 
Hamlet,  iv.  v.  26. 

108/9  and  159/60.  (opjo.  crit.)  "When  the  poem  was  first  printed 
two  of  the  stanzas  exceeded  the  others  in  length — a  fault  which  was 
afterwards  corrected  in  the  edition  of  1837." — W.  in  letter  to  Faber, 
v.  supra. 

118—26.  W.  spent  much  pains  on  this  stanza,  first  printed  in  1845. 
C  shows  nine  successive  drafts,  of  which  the  first  is  as  follows : 

Less  than  tho  abundant  means  and  patient  skill 

Of  cloistered  architects,  men  free  to  fill 

Their  souls  with  love  of  (Jesus)  God  could  ne'er  have  raised 

Churches  wheroon  tho  rudest  Peasant  gazed 

With  reverence,  the  mail-clad  chief  with  awe,  5 

As  at  this  day  we  seeing  what  they  saw 

Humble  our  hearts  before  those  sanctities 

In  field  or  town  'mid  mountain  fastnesses 

Or  on  wave-beaten  shores  like  thine,  St.  Bees. 

136.  (app.  crit.)  Mountains  of  Caupland]  Copeland  Forest  is  the 
district  between  Ennerdale  and  Eskdale.  The  name  belongs  to  the 
ancient  Barony  (Cauplandia  of  medieval  documents). 

158-9.   (app.  crit.)    For  MS.  Letter  1842  v.  L.Y.,  p.  1138. 

162.  The  reference  in  W.'s  note  is  to  Excursion,  vii.  1008-57. 

p.  30.  XII.  Cf.  Epistle  to  Sir  George  H.  Beaumont,  77-88  and  note. 

p.  31.  XIV.  12.  Of  Power,  etc.}  This  reading  was  adopted  on  the 
suggestion  of  Barron  Field,  who  pointed  out  that  the  "superfluous 
syllables"  in  the  earlier  reading  "were  not  warranted".  (Letter  to  W., 
Dec.  17,  1836.) 

p.  32.  XV.  ON  ENTERING  DOUGLAS  BAY:  Dignum  laude,  etc.] 
The  reference  is  to  Horace,  Odes,  iv.  viii.  28. 

1 .  Cohorn]  Menno  Baron  Van  Coehorn  or  Cohorn,  the  Dutch  mili- 

NOTES  405 

tary  engineer,  known  as  "the  Dutch  Vauban"  (1641-1704).  He 
fortified  Namur  and  other  Dutch  towns.  W.  visited  Namur  in  1820. 
Both  M.  W.  and  D.  W.  mention  the  fortifications  in  their  Journals ; 
v.  Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent,  1820,  VI,  11.  9-14,  supra, 
Vol.  Ill,  pp.  167-8  and  note,  p.  469.  Coehorn  was  one  of  the  authorities 
on  military  architecture  read  by  Uncle  Toby  (v.  Tristram  Shandy,  Bk. 
II,  ch.  iii.).  W.  was  familiar  with  Uncle  Toby's  obsession  with  the 
Siege  of  Namur :  v.  The  Waggoner,  ii.  128-34,  note,  Vol.  II,  pp.  498-9. 

14.  noble  Hillary]  The  Tower  of  Refuge,  an  ornament  to  Douglas 
Bay,  was  erected  chiefly  through  the  humanity  and  zeal  of  Sir  William 
Hillary ;  and  he  also  was  the  founder  of  the  lifeboat  establishment  at 
that  place ;  by  which,  under  his  superintendence,  and  often  by  his 
exertions  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  own  life,  many  seamen  and 
passengers  have  been  saved. — W. 

D.  W.  records  in  her  Journal,  July  3,  1828,  at  Douglas:  "Sir  Wm. 
Hilary  saved  a  boy's  life  today  in  harbour."  The  Tower  of  Refuge 
was  built  in  1832. 

p.  33.  XVII.  ISLE  OF  MAN:  "My  son  William  is  here  the  person 
alluded  to  as  saving  the  life  of  the  youth,  and  the  circumstances  were 
as  mentioned  in  the  sonnet." — I.  F.  But,  as  Dowden  points  out, 
John  and  not  William  was  the  poet's  companion  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 
William,  however,  was  in  the  Isle  of  Man,  with  his  aunt  D.  W.  in 
1828,  and  the  incident  may  have  occurred  then. 

p.  34.  XIX.  BY  A  RETIRED  MABINEB:  This  unpretending  sonnet 
is  by  a  gentleman  nearly  connected  with  me,  and  I  hope,  as  it  falls 
so  easily  into  its  place,  that  both  the  writer  and  the  reader  will  excuse 
its  appearance  here. — W.  "Mary's  brother  Henry." — I.  F.  He  is  the 
subject  of  the  previous  sonnet. 

p.  34.  XX.  AT  BALA-SALA.  "  'A  thankful  Refugee,'  supposed  to 
be  written  by  a  friend,  Mr.  H.  Cookson,  who  died  there  a  few  years 
after." — I.  F.  Actually,  he  died  later  in  the  same  year  (v.  L.  F.,  p.  673). 
He  was  not,  as  sometimes  stated,  a  relative  of  Mrs.  W.'s  nor  of  her 
cousin  Canon  Cookson,  but  one  of  the  Cooksons  of  Kendal ;  his  son 
Strickland  acted  as  W.'s  executor. 

10-12.  Cf.  letter  in  which  W.  describes  his  visit  to  the  Cooksons 
at  Bala-Sala  July  17,  1833:  "the  upper  part  of  the  old  Tower  is  over- 
grown with  a  yellow  Lychen  which  has  the  appearance  of  a  gleam 
of  perpetual  evening  sunshine"  (L.Y.,  p.  659). 

p.  35.  XXI.  TYITWALD  HILL:  "Mr.  Robinson  and  I  walked  the 
greater  part  of  the  way  from  Castle-town  to  Peel,  and  stopped  some 
time  at  Tynwald  Hill.  One  of  my  companions  was  an  elderly  man, 
who  in  a  muddy  way  (for  he  was  tipsy)  explained  and  answered,  as 
far  as  he  could,  my  enquiries  about  this  place  and  the  ceremonies  held 
here.  I  found  more  agreeable  company  in  some  little  children;  one 
of  whom,  upon  my  request,  recited  the  Lord's  Prayer  to  me,  and  I 
helped  her  to  a  clearer  understanding  of  it  as  well  as  I  could ;  but 

406  NOTES 

I  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  my  own  part;  hers  was  much  better 
done,  and  I  am  persuaded  that,  like  other  children,  she  knew  more 
about  it  than  she  was  able  to  express,  especially  to  a  Stranger." — I.  F. 
Cf.  also  W.'s  letter  of  July  17,  1833,  quoted  supra. 

9.  old  Snafell]  The  summit  of  this  mountain  is  well  chosen  by 
Cowley  as  the  scene  of  the  "Vision",  in  which  the  spectral  angel 
discourses  with  him  concerning  the  government  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 
"I  found  myself",  says  he,  "on  the  top  of  that  famous  hill  in  the 
Island  Mona,  which  has  the  prospect  of  three  great,  and  not  long 
since  most  happy,  kingdoms.  As  soon  as  ever  I  looked  upon  them, 
they  called  forth  the  sad  representation  of  all  the  sins  and  all  the 
miseries  that  had  overwhelmed  them  these  twenty  years."  It  is  not 
to  be  denied  that  the  changes  now  in  progress,  and  the  passions,  and 
the  way  in  which  they  work,  strikingly  resemble  those  which  led  to 
the  disasters  the  philosophic  writer  so  feelingly  bewails.  God  grant 
that  the  resemblance  may  not  become  still  more  striking  as  months 
and  years  advance ! — W. 

p.  36.  XXIII.  IN  THE  FRITH  OF  CLYDE  :  "The  morning  of  the 
eclipse  was  exquisitely  beautiful  while  we  passed  the  Crag  as  described 
in  the  sonnet.  On  the  deck  of  the  steamboat  were  several  persons  of 
the  poor  and  labouring  class,  and  I  could  not  but  be  struck  by  their 
cheerful  talk  with  each  other,  while  not  one  of  them  seemed  to  notice 
the  magnificent  objects  with  which  we  were  surrounded;  and  even 
the  phenomenon  of  the  eclipse  attracted  but  little  of  their  attention. 
Was  it  right  not  to  regret  this  ?  They  appeared  to  me,  however,  so 
much  alive  in  their  own  minds  to  their  own  concerns  that  I  could  not 
look  upon  it  as  a  misfortune  that  they  had  little  perception  for  such 
pleasures  as  cannot  be  cultivated  without  ease  and  leisure.  Yet  if  one 
surveys  life  in  all  its  duties  and  relations,  such  ease  and  leisure  will 
not  be  found  so  enviable  a  privilege  as  it  may  at  first  appear.  Natural 
Philosophy,  Painting,  and  Poetry,  and  refined  taste,  are  no  doubt 
great  acquisitions  to  society ;  but  among  those  who  dedicate  them- 
selves to  such  pursuits  it  is  to  be  feared  that  few  are  as  happy,  and  as 
consistent  in  the  management  of  their  lives,  as  the  class  of  persons 
who  at  that  time  led  me  into  this  course  of  reflection.  I  do  not  mean 
by  this  to  be  understood  to  derogate  from  intellectual  pursuits,  for 
that  would  be  monstrous:  I  say  it  in  deep  gratitude  for  this  com- 
pensation to  those  whose  cares  are  limited  to  the  necessities  of  daily 
life.  Among  them,  self -tormentors,  so  numerous  in  the  higher  classes 
of  society,  are  rare." — I.  F. 

p.  36.  XXIV.  ON  THE  FBITH  OF  CLYDE  (In  a  steamboat):  "The 
mountain  outline  on  the  north  of  this  Island,  as  seen  from  the  Frith 
of  Clyde,  is  much  the  finest  I  have  ever  noticed  in  Scotland  or  else- 
where."—I.  F. 

p.  37.  XXV.  ON  REVISITING  DUNOLLY  CASTLE:  This  ingenious 
piece  of  workmanship,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  had  been  executed 

NOTES  407 

for  their  own  amusement  by  some  labourers  employed  about  the 
place. — W. 

11.  And  of  the  towering  courage,  etc.]  The  reading  of  the  text  was 
due  to  Barroii  Field's  objection  that  he  "did  not  understand  'That 
towering  courage,  etc.'  till  [he]  read  it  Of  the  blind  courage,  etc." 

p.  37.  XXVI.  THE  DUNOLLY  EAGLE:  7.  The  MS.  reading  "Villatic 
fowl"  is  a  reminiscence  of  Samson  Agonistes,  1695. 

OSSIAN:  47-8.  "The  verses — 

'Or  strayed 
From  hope  and  promise,  self -betrayed,' 

were,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  suggested  from  apprehensions  of  the  fate  of 
my  friend,  H.  C.,  the  subject  of  the  verses  addressed  to  CH.  C.  when 
six  years  old.'  The  piece  to  'Memory*  arose  out  of  similar  feelings." 
—I.  F. 

Before  1845  this  poem  was  placed  among  Poems  of  Sentiment  and 
Reflection.  For  W.'s  opinion  of  Macpherson's  Ossian  cf.  Essay  Sup- 
plementary to  the  Preface  of  1815,  supra,  Vol.  II,  p.  423,  and  letter 
to  E.  H.  Barker  (L.Y.,  p.  382). 

39—40.  Musaeus,  etc.]  No  well  Smith  compares  Virgil,  Aeneid,  vi. 

Musaeum  ante  omnes  (medium  nam  plurima  turba 
Hanc  habet  atque  humeris  extantem  suscipit  altis). 

57-60.  W.  writes  to  T.  N.  Talfourd:  "The  leading  interest 
attached  to  the  name  of  Ossian  is  connected  with  grey  hairs,  infirmity 
and  privation"  (L.Y.,  p.  817). 

p.  40.  XXIX.  CAVE  OF  STAFFA:  The  reader  may  be  tempted  to 
exclaim,  How  came  this  and  the  two  following  sonnets  to  be  written, 
after  the  dissatisfaction  expressed  in  the  preceding  one  ?  In  fact, 
at  the  risk  of  incurring  the  reasonable  displeasure  of  the  master  of  the 
steamboat,  I  returned  to  the  cave,  and  explored  it  under  circum- 
stances more  favourable  to  those  imaginative  impressions  which  it 
is  so  wonderfully  fitted  to  make  upon  the  mind. — W. 

6.   "the  high  embowed  roof"  Milton,  II  Penseroso,  157. 

p.  41.  XXXI.  FLOWERS  ON  THE  TOP  OF  THE  PILLARS,  etc.:  Upon 
the  head  of  the  columns  which  form  the  front  of  the  cave,  rests  a  body 
of  decomposed  basaltic  matter,  which  was  richly  decorated  with  that 
large  bright  flower,  the  ox-eyed  daisy.  I  had  noticed  the  same  flower 
growing  with  profusion  among  the  bold  rocks  on  the  western  coast 
of  the  Isle  of  Man,  making  a  brilliant  contrast  with  their  black  and 
gloomy  surfaces. — W. 

p.  42.  XXXIII.  IONA,  upon  Landing:  The  four  last  lines  of  this 
sonnet  are  adopted  from  a  well-known  sonnet  of  Russel,  as  conveying 
my  feeling  better  than  any  words  of  my  own  could  do. — W.  The 
sonnet  from  which  W.  borrows  is  No.  X  ("Could,  then,  the  Babes") 

408  NOTES 

in  the  Sonnets  and  Miscellaneous  Poems  by  the  Rev.  Thomas  Russell, 
Fellow  of  New  College,  Oxford,  1789.  For  W.'s  admiration  of  Russell's 
poetry,  particularly  this  one  and  that  on  Philoctetes  (Supposed  to  be 
written  at  Lemnos),  v.  L.Y.,  pp.  70,  652-3. 

p.  43.  XXXIV.  THE  BLACK  STONES  OF  IONA  :  Martin's  Voyage,  etc.] 
i.e.  Description  of  the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland:  including  an  account 
of  the  Manners,  Customs,  Religion,  Language,  Dress  etc.  of  the  inhabi- 
tants, by  M.  Martin,  1703. 

p.  43.  XXXV.  Homeward  we  turn.  Isle  of  Columba's  cell:  Columba, 
an  Irish  saint  born  A.D.  521.  In  Ireland  he  founded  two  monasteries ; 
then,  with  twelve  disciples,  he  went  to  Scotland  and  was  given  the 
Island  of  lona,  where  ho  built  a  church  and  monastery,  and  was 
largely  instrumental  in  the  conversion  of  the  Picts. 

p.  44.  XXXVI.  GBEENOCK  :  Per  me  si  va,  etc.  Dante,  Inferno,  iii.  1. 

p.  44.  XXXVII.  "There!"  said  a  Stripling:  "Mosgiel  was  thus 
pointed  out  to  me  by  a  young  man  on  the  top  of  the  coach  on  my  way 
from  Glasgow  to  Kilmarnock.  It  is  remarkable  that,  though  Burns 
lived  some  time  here,  and  during  much  the  most  productive  period 
of  his  poetical  life,  he  nowhere  adverts  to  the  splendid  prospects 
stretching  towards  the  sea  and  bounded  by  the  peaks  of  Arran  on  one 
part,  which  in  clear  weather  he  must  have  had  daily  before  his  eyes. 
Yet  this  is  easily  explained.  In  one  of  his  poetical  effusions  he  speaks 
of  describing  'fair  Nature's  face'  as  a  privilege  on  which  he  sets  a 
high  value;  nevertheless,  natural  appearances  rarely  take  a  lead  in 
his  poetry.  It  is  as  a  human  being,  eminently  sensitive  and  intelligent, 
and  not  as  a  Poet,  clad  in  his  priestly  robes  and  carrying  the  ensigns 
of  sacerdotal  office,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us.  Whether  he 
speaks  of  rivers,  hills,  and  woods,  it  is  not  so  much  on  account  of  the 
properties  with  which  they  are  absolutely  endowed,  as  relatively  to 
local  patriotic  remembrances  and  associations,  or  as  they  ministered 
to  personal  feelings,  especially  those  of  love,  whether  happy  or  other- 
wise ; — yet  it  is  not  always  so.  Soon  after  we  had  passed  Mosgiel  Farm 
we  crossed  the  Ayr,  murmuring  and  winding  through  a  narrow  woody 
hollow.  His  line — 'Auld  hermit  Ayr  strays  through  his  woods1 — 
came  at  once  to  -my  mind  with  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  and  Doon, — 
Ayrshire  streams  over  which  he  breathes  a  sigh  as  being  unnamed  in 
song;  and  surely  his  own  attempts  to  make  them  known  were  as 
successful  as  his  heart  could  desire." — I.  F. 

9.  "the  Random  bield  of  clod  or  stone"]  From  Burns,  To  a  Mountain 
Daisy,  iv. : 

But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 
O'  clod  or  stone. 

"Bield"  is  the  dialect  word  for  shelter,  often  found  in  place-names  in 
the  Lake  District,  v.  note  to  Epistle  to  Sir  O.  H.  Beaumont,  1.  175 
(p.  47).  Cf.  The  Sfopherd  of  BieU  Crag:  Note  to  Exc.  vi,  1079, 
Vol.  V. 

NOTES  409 

p.  45.  XXXVIII.  THE  RIVEB  EDEN:  It  is  to  be  feared  that  there 
is  more  of  the  poet  than  the  sound  etymologist  in  this  derivation  of 
the  name  Eden.  On  the  western  coast  of  Cumberland  is  a  rivulet 
which  enters  the  sea  at  Moresby,  known  also  in  the  neighbourhood  by 
the  name  of  Eden.  May  not  the  latter  syllable  come  from  the  word 
Dean,  a  valley  ?  Langdale,  near  Ambleside,  is  by  the  inhabitants 
called  Langden.  The  former  syllable  occurs  in  the  name  Emont,  a 
principal  feeder  of  the  Eden ;  and  the  stream  which  flows,  when  the 
tide  is  out,  over  Cartmel  sands,  is  called  the  Ea — eau,  French — 
aqua,  Latin. — W. 

2-3.  verse  of  mine  the  .  .  .  Repeats  but  once]  i.e.  in  Song  at  the  feast 
of  Brougham  Castle,  46-7. 

6—7.  Nature  gives  thee  flowers  etc.]  "This  can  scarcely  be  true  to 
the  letter ;  but,  without  stretching  the  point  at  all,  I  can  say  that  the 
soil  and  air  appear  more  congenial  with  many  upon  the  banks  of  this 
river,  than  I  have  observed  in  any  other  parts  of  Great  Britain." — I.  F. 

p.  45.  XXXIX.  MONUMENT  OF  MBS.  HOWABD:  "Before  this 
monument  was  put  up  in  the  Chapel  at  Wetheral  I  saw  it  in  the 
Sculptor's  studio.  Nollekens,  who,  by  the  bye,  was  a  strange  and 
grotesque  figure  that  interfered  much  with  one's  admiration  of  his 
works,  showed  me  at  the  same  time  the  various  models  in  clay  which 
he  had  made,  one  after  another,  of  the  Mother  and  her  Infant :  the 
improvement  on  each  was  surprising ;  and  how  so  much  grace,  beauty, 
and  tenderness  had  come  out  of  such  a  head  I  was  sadly  puzzled  to 
conceive.  Upon  a  window-seat  in  his  parlour  lay  two  casts  of  faces, 
one  of  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  so  noted  in  her  day ;  and  the  other 
of  Mr.  Pitt,  taken  after  his  death,  a  ghastly  resemblance,  as  these 
things  always  are,  even  when  taken  from  the  living  subject,  and  more 
ghastly  in  this  instance  from  the  peculiarity  of  the  features.  The 
heedless  and  apparently  neglectful  manner  in  which  the  faces  of  these 
two  persons  were  left — the  one  so  distinguished  in  London  Society, 
and  the  other  upon  whose  counsels  and  public  conduct,  during  a  most 
momentous  period,  depended  the  fate  of  this  great  Empire  and  per- 
haps of  all  Europe — afforded  a  lesson  to  which  the  dullest  of  casual 
visitors  could  scarcely  be  insensible.  It  touched  me  the  more  because 
I  had  so  often  seen  Mr.  Pitt  upon  his  own  ground  at  Cambridge  and 
upon  the  floor  of  the  House  of  Commons." — I.  F.  v.  W.'s  letter  to 
Allan  Cunningham  (L.Y.,  p.  708). 

p.  46.  XLI.  NUNNERY:  "I  became  acquainted  with  the  walks  of 
Nunnery  when  a  boy ;  they  are  within  easy  reach  of  a  day's  pleasant 
excursion  from  the  town  of  Penrith,  where  I  used  to  pass  my  summer 
holidays  under  the  roof  of  my  maternal  Grandfather.  The  place  is 
well  worth  visiting ;  though,  within  these  few  years  its  privacy,  and 
therefore  the  pleasure  which  the  scene  is  so  well  fitted  to  give,  has 
been  injuriously  affected  by  walks  cut  in  the  rocks  on  that  side  the 
stream  which  had  been  left  in  its  natural  state." — I.  F. 

410  NOTES 

14.  Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Railway]  At  Corby,  a  few  miles  below 
Nunnery,  the  Eden  is  crossed  by  a  magnificent  viaduct ;  and  another 
of  these  works  is  thrown  over  a  deep  glen  or  ravine,  at  a  very  short 
distance  from  the  main  stream. — W. 

AND  HER  DAUGHTERS  :  The  daughters  of  Long  Meg,  placed  in  a  per- 
fect circle  eighty  yards  in  diameter,  are  seventy -two  in  number  above 
ground ;  a  little  way  out  of  the  circle  stands  Long  Meg  herself,  a  single 
stone,  eighteen  feet  high.  When  I  first  saw  this  monument,  as  I  came 
upon  it  by  surprise,  I  might  over -rate  its  importance  as  an  object ; 
but,  though  it  will  not  bear  a  comparison  with  Stonehenge,  I  must 
say  I  have  not  seen  any  other  relique  of  those  dark  ages  which  can 
pretend  to  rival  it  in  singularity  and  dignity  of  appearance. — W. 

The  sonnet  was  probably  written  in  January  1821.  On  Jan.  6  of 
that  year  he  wrote  to  Sir  George  Beaumont:  "My  road  brought  me 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  upon  that  ancient  monument  called  by 
the  country  people  Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters.  Everybody  has 
heard  of  it,  and  so  had  I  from  very  early  childhood,  but  had  never 
seen  it  before.  Next  to  Stonehenge  it  is,  beyond  dispute,  the  most 
noble  relic  of  the  kind  that  this  or  probably  any  other  country  con- 
tains. Long  Meg  is  a  single  block  of  unhewn  stone,  eighteen  feet  high, 
at  a  small  distance  from  a  vast  circle  of  other  stones,  some  of  them 
of  huge  size,  though  curtailed  of  their  stature  by  their  own  incessant 
pressure  upon  it"  (L.Y.,  p.  6). 

The  sonnet  was  first  published  in  W.'s  Guide  to  the  Lakes,  third 
edition,  1822  (v.  edition  by  E.  de  S.,  London,  1906,  p.  53),  in  1827 
and  1832  among  the  Miscellaneous  Sonnets.  It  took  its  present 
position  in  1837.  Three  manuscripts  are  known  to  me — one  in  the 
W.  Museum  at  Grasmere,  the  other  two  in  the  Cornell  Library,  among 
the  drafts  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets  (v.  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets,  ed. 
Potts,  pp.  104  and  105). 

p.  48.  XLIV.  LOWTHER:  "Cathedral  pomp.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether  this  union  was  in  the  contemplation  of  the  Artist  when  he 
planned  the  Edifice.  However  this  might  be,  a  Poet  may  be  excused 
for  taking  the  view  of  the  subject  presented  in  this  sonnet." — I.  F. 

p.  49.  XLV.  To  THE  EARL  OF  LONSDALE  :  This  sonnet  was  written 
immediately  after  certain  trials,  which  took  place  at  the  Cumberland 
Assizes,  when  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  in  consequence  of  repeated 
and  long -continued  attacks  upon  his  character,  through  the  local 
press,  had  thought  it  right  to  prosecute  the  conductors  and  pro- 
prietors of  three  several  journals.  A  verdict  of  libel  was  given  in  one 
case ;  and,  in  the  others,  the  prosecutions  were  withdrawn,  upon  the 
individuals  retracting  and  disavowing  the  charges,  expressing  regret 
that  they  had  been  made,  and  promising  to  abstain  from  the  like  in 
future. — W. 

p.  49.   XL VI.   THE  SOMNAMBULIST:  "This  poem  might  be  dedi- 

NOTES  411 

cated  to  my  friends  Sir  G.  Beaumont  and  Mr.  Rogers,  jointly.  While 
we  were  making  an  excursion  together  in  this  part  of  the  Lake  Dis- 
trict we  heard  that  Mr.  Glover,  the  Artist,  while  lodging  at  Lyulph's 
Tower,  had  been  disturbed  by  a  loud  shriek,  and  upon  rising  he  had 
learnt  that  it  had  come  from  a  young  woman  in  the  house  who  was 
in  the  habit  of  walking  in  her  sleep:  in  that  state  she  had  gone 
downstairs,  and,  while  attempting  to  open  the  outer  door,  either  from 
some  difficulty  or  the  effect  of  the  cold  stone  upon  her  feet,  had 
uttered  the  cry  which  alarmed  him.  It  seemed  to  us  all  that  this 
might  serve  as  a  hint  for  a  poem,  and  the  story  here  told  was  con- 
structed, and  soon  after  put  into  verse  by  me  as  it  now  stands." — I.  F. 
In  ed.  1837  W.  dated  the  poem  1833,  but  he  wrote  of  it  to  Rogers  in 
July  1830  as  written  more  than  a  year  ago,  and  it  is  found  in  a  manu- 
script with  other  work  of  1828.  Sir  George  Beaumont  died  in 
Feb.  1827,  and  he  and  Rogers  had  spent  some  time  with  W.  in  the 
Lake  country  during  the  previous  summer. 

84-5.  that  pale  Queen]  Lady  Macbeth.   (Macbeth  iv.  v.) 

150.  From  vain  temptations  free]  Cf.  Ode  to  Duty  (early  draft). 

p.   54.    XL VII.    To   CORDELIA  M :   i.e.   Cordelia   Marshall, 

daughter  of  D.  W.'s  great  friend,  Jane  Marshall.  In  1841  she  married 
William  Whewell,  who  succeeded  W.'s  brother  as  Master  of  Trinity, 
Cambridge,  in  that  year. 


p.  56.  I.  EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY:  "This  poem  is  a  favourite 
among  the  Quakers,  as  I  have  learnt  on  many  occasions.  It  was 
composed  in  front  of  the  house  at  Alfoxden  in  the  spring  of  1798." 
— I.  F. 

Hutchinson  points  out  that  the  friend  alluded  to  in  the  Advertise- 
ment to  L.B.  1798  [the  two  poems  "arose  out  of  a  conversation  with  a 
friend  who  was  somewhat  unreasonably  attached  to  modern  books 
of  Moral  Philosophy"]  was  Hazlitt,  who  visited  W.  at  Alfoxden  in 
May-June  1798.  Hazlitt  was  at  the  time  busy  over  his  Essay  on  the 
Principles  of  Human  Action9  and  later,  in  his  essay  On  my  First 
Acquaintance  with  Poets,  he  relates  that  one  evening  "I  got  into  a 
metaphysical  argument  with  W.  while  Coleridge  was  explaining  the 
different  notes  of  the  nightingale  to  his  sister,  in  which  we  neither 
of  us  succeeded  in  making  ourselves  perfectly  clear  and  intelligible". 

15.  For  Matthew  v.  X,  infra. 

p.  68.  III.  LINES  WBITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPUING:  "1798.  Actually 
composed  while  I  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  the  brook  that  runs  down 
from  the  Comb,  in  which  stands  the  village  of  Alford,  through  the 
grounds  of  Alfoxden.  It  was  a  chosen  resort  of  mine.  The  brook  fell 
down  a  sloping  rock  so  as  to  make  a  waterfall  considerable  for  that 
country,  and  across  the  pool  below  had  fallen  a  tree,  an  ash,  if  I 

412  .  NOTES 

rightly  remember,  from  which  rose  perpendicularly  boughs  in  search 
of  the  light  intercepted  by  the  deep  shade  above.  The  boughs  bore 
leaves  of  green  that  for  want  of  sunshine  had  faded  into  almost  lily- 
white  ;  and  from  the  underside  of  this  natural  sylvan  bridge  depended 
long  and  beautiful  tresses  of  ivy  which  waved  gently  in  the  breeze 
that  might  poetically  speaking  be  called  the  breath  of  the  waterfall. 
This  motion  varied  of  course  in  proportion  to  the  power  of  water  in 
the  brook.  When,  with  dear  friends,  I  revisited  this  spot,  after  an 
interval  of  more  than  forty  years,  this  interesting  feature  of  the  scene 
was  gone.  To  the  owner  of  the  place  I  could  not  but  regret  that  the 
beauty  of  this  retired  part  of  the  grounds  had  not  tempted  him  to 
make  it  more  accessible  by  a  path,  not  broad  or  obtrusive,  but 
sufficient  for  persons  who  love  such  scenes  to  creep  along  without 
difficulty."— I.  F. 

p.  58.  IV.  A  CHABACTEB:  "The  principal  features  are  taken  from 
that  of  my  friend  Robert  Jones." — I.  F.  For  Jones  v.  Vol.  Ill, 
Sonnets,  pp.  41  and  110  and  Notes.  A  Character  was  omitted  from 
edd.  1802-32.  In  1800  it  had  the  title  A  Character,  in  the  Antithetical 

p.  59.  V.  To  MY  SISTEB:  "Composed  in  front  of  Alfoxden  House. 
My  lit  tie  boy -messenger  on  this  occasion  was  the  son  of  Basil  Montagu. 
The  larch  mentioned  in  the  first  stanza  was  standing  when  I  revisited 
the  place  in  May,  1841,  more  than  forty  years  after.  I  was  disappoin- 
ted that  it  had  not  improved  in  appearance  as  to  size,  nor  had  it 
acquired  anything  of  the  majesty  of  age,  which,  even  though  less 
perhaps  than  any  other  tree,  the  larch  sometimes  does.  A  few  score 
yards  from  this  tree  grew,  when  we  inhabited  Alfoxden,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  beech -trees  ever  seen.  The  ground  sloped  both 
towards  and  from  it.  It  was  of  immense  size,  and  threw  out  arms 
that  struck  into  the  soil,  like  those  of  the  banyan  tree,  and  rose  again 
from  it.  Two  of  the  branches  thus  inserted  themselves  twice,  which 
gave  to  each  the  appearance  of  a  serpent  moving  along  by  gathering 
itself  up  in  folds.  One  of  the  large  boughs  of  this  tree  had  been  torn 
off  by  the  wind  before  we  left  Alfoxden,  but  five  remained.  In  1841 
we  could  barely  find  the  spot  where  the  tree  had  stood.  So  remarkable 
a  production  of  nature  could  not  have  been  wilfully  destroyed." — I.  F. 

p.  60.  VI.  SIMON  LEE  :  "This  old  man  had  been  huntsman  to  the 
Squires  of  Alfoxden,  which,  at  the  time  we  occupied  it,  belonged  to 
a  minor.  The  old  man's  cottage  stood  upon  the  common,  a  little  way 
from  the  entrance  to  Alfoxden  Park.  But  it  had  disappeared.  Many 
other  changes  had  t&ken  place  in  the  adjoining  village,  which  I  could 
not  but  notice  with  a  regret  more  natural  than  well-considered. 
Improvements  but  rarely  appear  such  to  those  who,  after  long  inter- 
vals of  time,  revisit  places  they  have  had  much  pleasure  in.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  add,  the  fact  was  as  mentioned  in  the  poem ;  and  I 
have,  after  an  interval  of  45  years,  the  image  of  the  old  man  as  fresh 

NOTES  413 

before  my  eyes  as  if  I  had  seen  him  yesterday.  The  expression  when 
the  hounds  were  out,  'I  dearly  love  their  voices'  was  word  for  word 
from  his  own  lips." — I.  F. 

On  the  text  of  no  other  short  poem  did  W.  expend  so  much  labour 
as  on  Simon  Lee.  As  Dowden  has  pointed  out,  '  'the  first  seven  stanzas 
are  found  in  different  texts  and  different  sequence  in  1798, 1802, 1820, 
1827,  1832.  Words  and  lines  were  altered,  stanzas  shifted  in  position, 
and  new  stanzas  constructed  by  connecting  the  halves  of  certain 
stanzas  with  the  halves  of  others."  The  object,  as  Hutchinson  sug- 
gests, was  probably  "to  broaden  and  emphasize  the  contrast  between 
Simon's  radiant  youth  and  decrepit  age.  In  1798  contrasted  traits 
of  youth  and  age  jostle  each  other  throughout  the  several  stanzas  .  . . 
in  1832  the  traits  and  evidences  of  Simon's  early  vigour  are  concen- 
trated within  stanzas  1-3,  while  those  of  his  sad  decline  are  brought 
together  in  stanzas  4-7,  the  contrast  being  marked  by  the  phrase 
'But  oh,  the  heavy  change !'  "  I  have  given  in  the  app.  crit.  the  text 
of  1798 ;  the  later  progress  of  the  text  was  as  follows:  [a  =  11.  1-4; 
6  =  11.  5-8  of  each  stanza]. 

In  1800,  the  only  change  was  in  5. 1.  2  little  to  dwindled. 

In  1802-15  stanzas  4,  5,  6  are  transposed  to  the  order  5,  6,  4. 

In  1820  the  order  becomes  la  26,  3,  4a  56,  6,  5a  46,  7,  8,  9. 

In  1827  the  order  becomes  la  26,  4a  36,  3a  56,  6,  5a  46,  8,  7,  9. 

In  1832  the  order  becomes  la  26,  3a  56,  6,  4a  36,  etc.  as  1827. 

These  changes  in  order  were  accompanied  by  some  changes  in  the 
text.  Tho  final  reading  of  11.  7-8  dates  from  1820,  as  also  does  that 
of  11.  27-9  (but  with  And  for  Old)  and  of  1.  35.  The  final  reading  of 
11.  4-5  and  13-16  dates  from  1827.  In  1827  also  11.  25-6  read: 

Worn  out  by  hunting  feats — bereft 
By  time  of  friends  and  kindred,  see ! 

The  final  reading  dates  from  1 832.  Lines  47-8  reached  their  final  stage 
only  in  1845. 

"But  what,"  saith  he,  "avails  the  land, 

Which  I  can  till  no  longer  ?"  1827. 

But  what  avails  it  now,  the  land, 

Which  he  can  till  no  longer  ?  1832. 

'Tis  his,  but  what  avails  the  land, 

Which  he  can  till  no  longer  ?  1837. 

The  time  alas !  is  come,  when  he 

Can  till  the  land  no  longer.    1840. 

A  sad  possession  now,  for  he 

Can  till  the  land  no  longer.   C. 

For  1798-1820  v.  app.  crit. 
The  final  reading  of  11.  55-6  dates  from  1840. 

25.   But,  oh  the  heavy  change]  From  Lycidas,  37. 

p.  64.  VII.  WBITTENIN  GEBMANY  :  "1798  and  1799.  A  bitter  winter 

414  NOTES 

it  was  when  these  verses  were  composed  by  the  side  of  my  Sister, 
in  our  lodgings  at  a  draper's  house  in  the  romantic  imperial  town  of 
Goslar,  on  the  edge  of  the  Hartz  Forest.  In  this  town  the  German 
emperors  of  the  Franconian  line  were  accustomed  to  keep  their  court, 
and  it  retains  vestiges  of  ancient  splendour.  So  severe  was  the  cold 
of  this  winter,  that  when  we  passed  out  of  the  parlour  warmed  by  the 
stove,  our  cheeks  were  struck  by  the  air  as  by  cold  iron.  I  slept  in  a 
room  over  a  passage  which  was  not  ceiled.  The  people  of  the  house 
used  to  say,  rather  unfeelingly,  that  they  expected  I  should  be  frozen 
to  death  some  night ;  but,  with  the  protection  of  a  pelisse  lined  with 
fur,  and  a  dog's-skin  bonnet,  such  as  was  worn  by  the  peasants,  I 
walked  daily  on  the  ramparts,  or  in  a  sort  of  public  ground  or  garden, 
in  which  was  a  pond.  Here,  I  had  no  companion  but  a  kingfisher,  a 
beautiful  creature,  that  used  to  glance  by  me.  I  consequently  became 
much  attached  to  it.  During  these  walks  I  composed  the  poem  that 
follows,  The  Poet's  Epitaph" — I.  F. 

p.  65.  .VIII.  THE  POET'S  EPITAPH:  Mr.  T.  E.  Casson  (Times  Lit. 
Suppl.,  Sept.  11,  1937)  calls  attention  to  the  parallel  between  this 
poem,  especially  the  last  couplet,  and  Theocritus,  Epigram  XIX: 

'O  p,ovoo7Tot6s 

€1  fJL€V   TTOVTIpQS, 

€1  5*   taai  KpTJyVOS  TC  Kal  TTO/XX 

dapaewv  Ko6i^€vf  Krjv  OeXys, 

(Here  lies  the  poet  Hipponax  I  If  thou  art  a  sinner  draw  not  near  this 
tomb,  but  if  thou  art  a  true  man,  and  the  son  of  righteous  sires,  sit 
boldly  down  here,  yea,  and  sleep  if  thou  wilt.  Trs.  Lang.)  It  is 
noteworthy  that  in  the  February  of  the  year  in  which  the  poem  was 
composed  W.,  in  writing  to  Coleridge,  refers  to  Theocritus.  Cf.  also 
Burns,  A  Bard's  Epitaph. 

24.  (App.  crit. )  Lamb  wrote  in  a  letter,  1 80 1 : '  *  The  Poet's  Epitaph  is  dis- 
figured, to  my  taste,  by  the  common  satire  upon  parsons  and  lawyers  in 
the  beginning,  and  the  coarse  epithet  of  'pin-point'  in  the  sixth  stanza." 

p.  67.  IX.  To  THE  DAISY:  "This  and  the  other  poems  addressed  to 
the  same  flower  were  composed  at  Town-end,  Grasmere,  during  the 
earlier  part  of  my  residence  there.  I  have  been  censured  for  the  last 
line  but  one — 'thy  function  apostolical' — as  being  little  less  than 
profane.  How  could  it  be  thought  so  ?  The  word  is  adopted  with 
reference  to  its  derivation,  implying  something  sent  on  a  mission; 
and  assuredly  this  little  flower,  especially  when  the  subject  of  verse, 
may  be  regarded,  in  its  humble  degree,  as  administering  both  to  moral 
and  to  spiritual  purposes." — I.  F. 

Placed  among  Poems  of  the  Fancy,  1815-32. 

21-4.  v.  The  Simpliciad: 

Of  Apostolic  daisies  learn  to  think, 

Draughts  from  their  urns  of  true  devotion  drink. 

NOTES  415 

p.  68.  X.  MATTHEW:  "Such  a  Tablet  as  is  here  spoken  of  con- 
tinued to  be  preserved  in  Hawkshead  School,  though  the  inscriptions 
were  not  brought  down  to  our  time.  This  and  other  poems  connected 
with  Matthew  would  not  gain  by  a  literal  detail  of  facts.  Like  the 
Wanderer  in  'The  Excursion',  this  Schoolmaster  was  made  up  of 
several  both  of  his  class  and  men  of  other  occupations.  I  do  not  ask 
pardon  for  what  there  is  of  untruth  in  such  verses,  considered  strictly 
as  matters  of  fact.  It  is  enough  if,  being  true  and  consistent  in  spirit, 
they  move  and  teach  in  a  manner  not  unworthy  of  a  Poet's  calling.*' 

— I.  F.  Cf .  Note  to  Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School  of , 

p.  451  infra. 

p.  73.  XIII.  PERSONAL  TALK:  "Written  at  Town-end.  The  last 
line  but  two  stood,  at  first,  better  and  more  characteristically  thus: 

'By  my  half -kitchen  and  half -parlour  fire.' 

My  Sister  and  I  were  in  the  habit  of  having  the  tea-kettle  in  our  little 
sitting-room ;  and  we  toasted  the  bread  ourselves,  which  reminds  me 
of  a  little  circumstance  not  unworthy  of  being  set  down  among  these 
minutiae.  Happening  both  of  us  to  be  engaged  a  few  minutes  one 
morning  when  we  had  a  young  prig  of  a  Scotch  lawyer  to  breakfast 
with  us,  my  dear  Sister,  with  her  usual  simplicity,  put  the  toasting- 
fork  with  a  slice  of  bread  into  the  hands  of  this  Edinburgh  genius. 
Our  little  book-case  stood  on  one  side  of  the  fire.  To  prevent  loss  of 
time,  he  took  down  a  book,  and  fell  to  reading  to  the  neglect  of  the 
toast,  which  was  burnt  to  a  cinder.  Many  a  time  we  laughed  at  this 
circumstance,  and  other  cottage  simplicities  of  that  day.  By  the  bye, 
I  have  a  spite  at  one  of  this  series  of  Sonnets  (I  will  leave  the  reader 
to  discover  which)  as  having  been  the  means  of  nearly  putting  off  for 
ever  our  acquaintance  with  dear  Miss  Fenwick,  who  has  always 
stigmatised  one  line  of  it  as  vulgar,  and  worthy  only  of  having  been 
composed  by  a  country  Squire." — I.  F. 

6.  maidens  withering  on  the  stalk]  The  line  "stigmatised"  by  Miss 
Fenwick ;  but  it  is  a  reminiscence  of  the  speech  of  Theseus  to  Hermia 
in  A  Midsummer -Night's  Dream,  i.  i.  76-8. 

But  earthlier  happy  is  the  rose  distilled 

Than  that  which  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn 

Grows,  lives,  and  dies,  in  single  blessedness ; 

Cf.  also  Comus,  743: 

If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected  rose 

It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languished  head. 

25-6.  sweetest  melodies  . . .  sweet]  From  Collins,  Ode,  The  Passions, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 

W.  had  already  borrowed  the  phrase  in  An  Evening  Walk,  237. 
32.  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low]  Cf.  Prelude,  xiv.  271,  and 

416  NOTES 

Epitaphs  translated  from  Chiabrera,  iv.  24,  p.  250  supra,  and  Excursion, 
vii.  1047.  All  go  back  to  Isaiah  ii.  12. 

41-2.  W.  told  R.  P.  Graves  that  "the  Tragedy  of  Othello,  Plato's 
record  of  the  last  scenes  of  the  career  of  Socrates,  and  Isaac  Walton's 
Life  of  George  Herbert,  were  in  his  opinion  the  most  pathetic  of  human 
compositions".  For  his  love  of  the  first  book  of  the  Faerie  Queene  v. 
dedication  to  The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone. 

44-5.   remote  .  .  .  thought]  On  this  rhyme  v.  Vol.  I,  p.  367. 

that  "The  Illustrated  London  News — the  pioneer  of  illustrated  news- 
papers— was  first  issued  on  14th  May  1842". 

p.  75.  XV.  To  THE  SPADE  or  A  FRIEND:  "This  person  was 
Thomas  Wilkinson,  a  quaker  by  religious  profession ;  by  natural  con- 
stitution of  mind,  or  shall  I  venture  to  say,  by  God's  grace,  he  was 
something  better.  He  had  inherited  a  small  estate,  and  built  a  house 
upon  it  near  Yanwath,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Emont.  I  have  heard 
him  say  that  his  heart  used  to  beat,  in  his  boyhood,  when  he  heard 
the  sound  of  a  drum  and  fife.  Nevertheless,  the  spirit  of  enterprise 
in  him  confined  itself  to  tilling  his  ground,  and  conquering  such 
obstacles  as  stood  in  the  way  of  its  fertility.  Persons  of  his  religious 
persuasion  do  now,  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  formerly,  attach 
themselves  to  trade  and  commerce.  He  kept  the  old  track.  As 
represented  in  this  poem,  he  employed  his  leisure  hours  in  shaping 
pleasant  walks  by  the  side  of  his  beloved  river,  where  he  also  built 
something  between  a  hermitage  and  a  summer-house,  attaching  to  it 
inscriptions  after  the  manner  of  Shenstone  at  his  Leasowes.  He  used 
to  travel  from  time  to  time,  partly  from  love  of  nature,  and  partly 
with  religious  friends  in  the  service  of  humanity.  His  admiration  of 
genius  in  every  department  did  him  much  honour.  Through  his 
connection  with  the  family  in  which  Edmund  Burke  was  educated, 
he  became  acquainted  with  that  great  man,  who  used  to  receive  him 
with  great  kindness  and  consideration ;  and  many  times  have  I  heard 
Wilkinson  speak  of  those  interesting  interviews.  He  was  honoured 
also  by  the  friendship  of  Elizabeth  Smith,  and  of  Thomas  Clarkson 
and  his  excellent  wife,  and  he  was  much  esteemed  by  Lord  and  Lady 
Lonsdale,  and  every  member  of  that  family.  Among  his  verses  (he 
wrote  many)  are  some  worthy  of  preservation — one  little  poem  in 
particular  upon  disturbing,  by  prying  curiosity,  a  bird  while  hatching 
her  young  in  his  garden.  The  latter  part  of  this  innocent  and  good 
man's  life  was  melancholy.  He  became  blind,  and  also  poor  by 
becoming  surety  for  some  of  his  relations.  He  was  a  bachelor.  He 
bore,  as  I  have  often  witnessed,  his  calamities  with  unfailing  resigna- 
tion. I  will  only  add  that,  while  working  in  one  of  his  fields,  he  un- 
earthed a  stone  of  considerable  size,  then  another,  then  two  more, 
and,  observing  that  they  had  been  placed  in  order  as  if  forming  the 
segment  of  a  circle,  he  proceeded  carefully  to  uncover  the  soil,  and 

NOTES  417 

brought  into  view  a  beautiful  Druids'  temple  of  perfect  though  small 
dimensions.  In  order  to  make  his  farm  more  compact,  he  exchanged 
this  field  for  another;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  add,  the  new  proprietor 
destroyed  this  interesting  relic  of  remote  ages  for  some  vulgar  pur- 
pose. The  fact,  so  far  as  concerns  Thomas  Wilkinson,  is  mentioned 
in  the  note  on  a  Sonnet  on  Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters." — I.  F. 

For  Wilkinson  v.  also  note  to  The  Solitary  Reaper  (Vol.  Ill,  pp.  444-5) . 

28.  For  the  change  in  text  from  the  reading  of  1807  (v.  app.  crit.) 
v.  note  to  XVIII,  infra. 

p.  77.  XVI.  A  NIGHT  THOUGHT:  "These  verses  were  thrown  off 
extempore  upon  leaving  Mrs.  Luff's  house  at  Fox-Ghyll,  one  evening. 
The  good  woman  is  not  disposed  to  look  at  the  bright  side  of  things, 
and  there  happened  to  be  present  certain  ladies  who  had  reached  the 
point  of  life  where  youth  is  ended,  who  seemed  to  contend  with  each 
other  in  expressing  their  dislike  of  the  country  and  climate.  One  of 
them  had  been  heard  to  say  she  could  not  endure  a  country  where 
there  was  'neither  sunshine  nor  cavaliers'." — I.  F.  On  Mrs.  Luff  v. 
E.L.,  pp.  277-8. 

"This  Dog  I  knew  well.  It  belonged  to  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  brother, 
Mr.  Thomas  Hutchinson,  who  then  lived  at  Sockburn  on  the  Tees, 
a  beautiful  retired  situation  where  I  used  to  visit  him  and  his  sisters 
before  my  marriage.  My  Sister  and  I  spent  many  months  there  after 
our  return  from  Germany  in  1799." — I.  F. 

changes  introduced  into  the  text  (v.  app.  crit.)  were  perhaps  due  to 
the  contemptuous  reference  in  The  Simpliciad  to  poets  who  "Pray 
for  their  spaniels,  consecrate  their  spades". 

p.  80.  XIX.  FIDEUTY:  "The  young  man  whose  death  gave 
occasion  to  this  poem  was  named  Charles  Gough,  and  had  come 
early  in  the  spring  to  Patterdale  for  the  sake  of  angling.  While 
attempting  to  cross  over  Helvellyn  to  Grasmere  he  slipped  from  a 
steep  part  of  the  rock  where  the  ice  was  not  thawed,  and  perished. 
His  body  was  discovered  as  is  told  in  this  poem.  Walter  Scott  heard  of 
the  accident,  and  both  he  and  I,  without  either  of  us  knowing  that 
the  other  had  taken  up  the  subject,  each  wrote  a  poem  in  admiration 
of  the  dog's  fidelity.  His  contains  a  most  beautiful  stanza: — 

'How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved  his  garment  how  oft  didst  thou  start  ?' 

[v.  note  to  Musings  near  Aqtiapendente,  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  490-1.] 

I  will  add  that  the  s  entiment  in  tho  last  four  lines  of  the  last  stanza 
in  my  verses  was  uttered  by  a  shepherd  with  such  exactness,  that 
a  traveller,  who  afterwards  reported  his  account  in  print,  was  induced 
to  question  the  man  whether  he  had  read  them,  which  he  had  not." 
— I.  F. 

917.17  IV  EG 

418  NOTES 

The  lines  (v.  app.  crit.)  which  W.  omitted  from  the  printed 
(1807)  version  of  Fidelity  are  preserved  in  two  manuscripts,  one  at 
Coleorton  and  the  other,  in  the  hand  of  S.  H.,  at  Grasmere. 

p.  83.  XX.  ODE  TO  DUTY:  "This  Ode,  written  1805,  is  on  the 
model  of  Gray's  Ode  to  Adversity  which  is  copied  from  Horace's  Ode 
to  Fortune;  [but  is  not  the  first  stanza  of  Gray's  from  a  Chorus  of 
JEschylus  ?  and  is  not  Horace's  Ode  also  modelled  on  the  Greek  ?] 
Many  and  many  a  time  have  I  been  twitted  by  my  wife  and  sister  for 
having  forgotten  this  dedication  of  myself  to  the  stern  lawgiver. 
Transgressor  indeed  I  have  been,  from  hour  to  hour,  from  day  to  day ; 
I  would  fain  hope,  however,  not  more  flagrantly  nor  in  a  worse  way 
than  most  of  my  tuneful  brethren.  But  these  last  words  are  in  a 
wrong  strain.  We  should  be  rigorous  to  ourselves,  and  forbearing  if 
not  indulgent  to  others,  and  if  we  make  comparisons  at  all  it  ought  to 
be  with  those  who  have  morally  excelled  us." — I.  F.  (The  passage  in 
square  brackets  written  in,  in  pencil,  in  E.  Q.'s  hand.) 

W.'s  dating  of  the  poem  has  been  proved  to  be  inaccurate.  On 
April  7,  1805,  Coleridge  entered  in  a  note -book:  "I  remember  having 
written  a  strong  letter  to  my  most  dear  and  honoured  W.  in  conse- 
quence of  his  Ode  to  Duty."  It  is  obvious,  from  his  wording,  that 
C.  refers  to  a  more  or  less  distant  date ;  further,  in  writing  to  Stuart, 
April  20,  he  says  he  has  had  no  letter  from  W.  since  one  dated  the 
previous  September.  It  seems  highly  probable,  as  Nowell  Smith  sug- 
gests in  Times  Lit.  SuppL,  June  20,  1935,  that  the  ode  was  written 
soon  after  Coleridge  left  Grasmere  in  Jan.  1804,  and  was  sent  on  to 
him  to  take  with  him  to  Malta.  Its  presence  in  MS.  M  corroborates 
this.  In  addition  to  MS.  M  two  manuscripts  are  known  to  be  extant, 
the  Longman  MS.,  and  a  transcript  in  the  Beaumont  collection  at 
Coleorton.  They  are  referred  to  in  the  app.  crit.  as  M,  L,  and  B. 

While  the  debt  to  Gray's  Ode  to  Adversity  is  obvious  enough,  it  is 
interesting  to  note  how  W.  had  Milton  at  the  back  of  his  mind  as  he 
wrote,  v.  notes  infra. 

The  motto  is  adapted  from  Seneca,  Moral  Epistles,  cxx.  10;  it 
was  suggested  to  W.  by  Barron  Field  in  a  letter  dated  Dec.  17, 

1.  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God]    Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  ix.  652-3: 

God  so  commanded,  and  left  that  Command 
Sole  Daughter  of  his  voice. 

31.  (a/pp.  crit.)  shoved  away]  Cf.  Lycidas,  118:  uAnd  shove  away 
the  worthy  bidden  guest." 

38.  I  feel  the  weight  etc.]   Cf.  Misc.  Sonnets,  i.  13. 

41-8.  This  stanza  was  omitted  from  the  text  after  1807,  but, 
following  Hutchinson,  I  venture  to  restore  it  as  a  valuable  link  in  the 
thought.  The  quotation  in  it  is  from  Milton :  Dedication  to  the  Parlia- 
ment of  England  of  The  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of  Divorce :  "to  enslave 

NOTES  419 

the  dignity  of  Man,  to  put  a  garrison  upon  his  neck  of  empty  and 
over-dignified  precepts." 

55—6.  These  two  lines*  the  most  imaginative  in  the  poem,  were 
denounced  by  the  Edinburgh  Review  as  "utterly  without  meaning ;  we 
have  no  sort  of  conception  in  what  sense  Duty  can  be  said  to  keep  the 
old  skies  fresh,  and  the  stars  from  wrong"  (Oct.  1807). 

61.  lowly  wise]  Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  viii.  172: 

Be  lowly  wise ; 
Think  only  what  concerns  thee  and  thy  being. 

63.  confidence  of  reason] :  Professor  Beatty  points  out  that  W. 
owed  this  phrase  to  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison:  "Truth  . . .  sometimes 
attracts  regard  in  the  robe  of  fancy,  and  sometimes  steps  forth  in  the 
confidence  of  reason." 

p.  86.  XXI.  CHABACTEB  OF  THE  HAPPY  WABBIOB:  The  above 
verses  were  written  soon  after  tidings  had  been  received  of  the  Death 
of  Lord  Nelson,  which  event  directed  the  Author's  thoughts  to  the 
subject.  His  respect  for  the  memory  of  his  great  fellow-countryman 
induces  him  to  mention  this ;  though  he  is  well  aware  that  the  Verses 
must  suffer  from  any  connection  in  the  Reader's  mind  with  a  Name 
so  illustrious. — W.  1807. 

"The  course  of  the  great  war  with  the  French  naturally  fixed  one's 
attention  upon  the  military  character,  and,  to  the  honour  of  our 
country,  there  were  many  illustrious  instances  of  the  qualities  that 
constitute  its  highest  excellence.  Lord  Nelson  carried  most  of  the 
virtues  that  the  trials  he  was  exposed  to  in  his  department  of  the  ser- 
vice necessarily  call  forth  and  sustain,  if  they  do  not  produce  the 
contrary  vices.  But  his  public  life  was  stained  with  one  great  crime, 
so  that,  though  many  passages  of  these  lines  were  suggested  by  what 
was  generally  known  as  excellent  in  his  conduct,  I  have  not  been  able 
to  connect  his  name  with  the  poem  as  I  could  wish,  or  even  to  think 
of  him  with  satisfaction  in  reference  to  the  idea  of  what  a  warrior 
ought  to  be.  For  the  sake  of  such  of  my  friends  as  may  happen  to 
read  this  note  I  will  add,  that  many  elements  of  the  character  here 
portrayed  were  found  in  my  brother  John,  who  perished  by  ship- 
wreck as  mentioned  elsewhere.  His  messmates  used  to  call  him  the 
Philosopher,  from  which  it  must  be  inferred  that  the  qualities  and 
dispositions  I  allude  to  had  not  escaped  their  notice.  He  often  ex- 
pressed his  regret,  after  the  war  had  continued  some  time,  that  he  had 
not  chosen  the  Naval,  instead  of  the  East  India  Company's  service,  to 
which  his  family  connection  had  led  him.  He  greatly  valued  moral  and 
religious  instruction  for  youth,  as  tending  to  make  good  sailors.  The 
best,  he  used  to  say,  came  from  Scotland ;  the  next  to  them,  from  the 
North  of  England,  especially  from  Westmoreland  and  Cumberland, 
where,  thanks  to  the  piety  and  local  attachments  of  our  ancestors, 
endowed,  or,  as  theyare  commonly  called,  free,  schools  abound." — I.  P. 

420  NOTES 

It  is  probable  that  W.  was  also  influenced  in  writing  the  poem  by  his 
memories  of  Beaupuy  (v.  Prelude,  ix)  and  by  Daniel's  Funerall  Poem 
Upon  the  Earl  of  Devonshire. 

6-34.  Cf.  passages  in  W.'s  letters  to  Sir  G.  Beaumont  on  his  brother 
John  (E.L.,  pp.  452,  462):  "Of  all  human  beings  whom  I  ever  knew, 
he  was  the  man  of  the  most  rational  desires,  the  most  sedate  habits, 
and  the  most  perfect  self-command. "  *  'I  will  here  transcribe  a  passage 
which  I  met  the  other  day  .  .  .  from  Aristotle's  Synopsis  of  the  Virtues 
and  Vices.  'It  is,'  says  he,  'the  property  of  fortitude  not  to  be  easily 
terrified  by  the  dread  of  things  pertaining  to  death ;  to  possess  good 
confidence  in  things  terrible,  and  presence  of  mind  in  dangers ;  rather 
to  prefer  to  be  put  to  death  worthily,  than  to  be  preserved  basely ; 
and  to  be  the  cause  of  victory.  Moreover,  it  is  the  property  of  fortitude 
to  labour  and  endure,  and  to  make  valorous  exertion  an  object  of 
choice.  Further,  presence  of  mind,  a  well-disposed  soul,  confidence 
and  boldness  are  the  attendants  on  fortitude;  and,  besides  these, 
industry  and  patience.'  Except  in  the  circumstance  of  making  valor- 
ous exertion  'an  object  of  choice*  (if  the  philosopher  alludes  to  general 
habits  of  character),  my  brother  might  have  sat  for  this  picture;  but 
he  was  of  a  meek  and  retired  nature,  loving  all  quiet  things." 

33-44.  Cf.  Daniel's  Funerall  Poem  Upon  the  Earl  of  Devonshire, 

For  that  which  many,  whom  ambition  foyles 

And  tortures  with  their  hopes,  hardly  attaine 

With  all  their  thrusts,  and  shouldring  plots,  and  wiles 

Was  easily  made  thine,  without  thy  paine. 

And  without  any  private  malicing 

Or  publique  greevance,  every  good  man  joy'd 

That  vertue  could  come  cleere  to  any  thing. 

48-60.  Cf.  ib.  107-14: 

Although  in  peace,  thou  seem'dst  to  be  all  peace 

Yet  being  in  warre,  thou  wert  all  warre,  and  there 

As  in  thy  spheere  thy  spirits  did  never  cease 

To  move  with  indefatigable  care, 

And  nothing  seem'd  more  to  arride  thy  heart 

Nor  more  inlarge  thee  into  jollity, 

Then  when  thou  sawest  thy  selfe  in  armour  girt, 

Or  any  act  of  armes  like  to  be  nye. 

75-6.  persevering  to  the  last  From  well  to  better] 
"For  Knightes  ever  should  be  persevering 
To  seek  honour  without  feintise  or  slouth 
Fro  well  to  better  in  all  manner  thing." 

CHATJCEB. — The  Floure  and  the  Leafe:  W.  1807. 
p.  88.   XXII.    THE  FOBOE  OF  PBAYEB:   "An  Appendage  to  The 
White  Doe.    My  friend,  Mr.  Rogers,  has  also  written  on  the  subject. 

NOTES  421 

The  story  is  preserved  in  Dr.  Whitaker's  'History  of  Craven' — a 
topographical  writer  of  first-rate  merit  in  all  that  concerns  the  past ; 
but  such  was  his  aversion  from  the  modern  spirit,  as  shown  in  the 
spread  of  manufacturies  in  those  districts  of  which  he  treats,  that  his 
readers  are  left  entirely  ignorant  both  of  the  progress  of  these  arts 
and  their  real  bearing  upon  the  comfort,  virtues,  and  happiness  of 
the  inhabitants.  While  wandering  on  foot  through  the  fertile  valleys 
and  over  the  moorlands  of  the  Apennine  that  divides  Yorkshire  from 
Lancashire,  I  used  to  be  delighted  with  observing  the  number  of 
substantial  cottages  that  had  sprung  up  on  every  side,  each  having  its 
little  plot  of  fertile  ground  won  from  the  surrounding  waste.  A 
bright  and  warm  fire,  if  needed,  was  always  to  be  found  in  these 
dwellings .  The  father  was  at  his  loom ;  the  children  looked  healthy  and 
happy.  Is  it  not  to  be  feared  that  the  increase  of  mechanic  power  has 
done  away  with  many  of  these  blessings,  and  substituted  many  evils  ? 
Alas !  if  these  evils  grow,  how  are  they  to  be  checked,  and  where  is 
the  remedy  to  be  found  ?  Political  economy  will  not  supply  it ;  that 
is  certain,  wo  must  look  to  something  deeper,  purer,  and  higher." 
—I.  F. 

For  date  of  composition  v.  D.  W.'s  Letter  to  Jane  Marshall,  Oct.  1 8, 
1807  (M.Y.,  p.  146). 

39-40.  (app.  crit.)  "Alluding  to  a  Ballad  of  Logan's.  W.  W.,  1807" 
K.  (referring  one  must  suppose  to  a  manuscript).  Lines  39—46  of 
the  poem  clearly  recall  Logan's  The  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

p.  91.  XXIII.  A  FACT,  AND  AN  IMAGINATION:  "The  first  and  last 
fourteen  lines  of  this  Poem  each  make  a  sonnet,  and  were  composed 
as  such ;  but  I  thought  that  by  intermediate  lines  they  might  be  con- 
nected so  as  to  make  a  whole.  One  or  two  expressions  are  taken  from 
Milton's  History  of  England:' — I.  F. 

The  last  fourteen  lines  of  the  poem  are  printed  by  K.  andN.  C.  Smith, 
but  with  opening  line,  'My  son,  behold  the  tide  already  spent',  as  an 
unpublished  sonnet  found  in  the  same  MS.  as  ''Through  Cumbrian 
Wilds",  v.  Appendix  III,  Vol.  Ill,  supra,  p.  409. 

On  Canute  and  Alfred  W.  also  wrote  two  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets 
i.  xx vi  and  xxx. 

1—14.  "He  caused  his  royal  seat  to  be  set  on  the  shore,  while  the 
tide  was  coming  in ;  and  with  all  the  state  that  royalty  could  put  into 
his  countenance,  said  thus  to  the  sea :  'Thou,  Sea,  belongest  to  me, 
and  the  land  whereon  I  sit  is  mine;  nor  hath  any  one  unpunished 
resisted  my  commands ;  I  charge  thee  come  no  further  upon  my  land, 
neither  presume  to  wet  the  feet  of  thy  sovereign  lord.'  But  the  sea, 
as  before9  came  rolling  on,  and  without  reverence  both  wet  and  dashed 
him.  Wherat  the  King  quickly  rising  wished  all  about  him  to  behold 
and  consider  the  weak  and  frivolous  power  of  a  King,  and  that  none 
indeed  deserved  the  name  of  King,  but  he  whose  eternal  laws  both  heaven, 
earth,  and  sea  obey." — Milton,  History  of  Britain,  bk.  vi. 

422  NOTES 

p.  92.  XXIV.  "A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand"  "The  com- 
plaint in  my  eyes  which  gave  occasion  to  this  address  to  my 
daughter  first  showed  itself  as  a  consequence  of  inflammation,  caught 
at  the  top  of  Kirkstone,  when  I  was  over-heated  by  having  carried 
up  the  ascent  my  eldest  son,  a  lusty  infant  [in  Jan.  1805:  v.  E.L9  p. 
432].  Frequently  has  the  disease  recurred  since,  leaving  my  eyes  in  a 
state  which  has  often  prevented  my  reading  for  months,  and  makes 
me  at  this  day  incapable  of  bearing  without  injury  any  strong  light 
by  day  or  night.  My  acquaintance  with  books  has  therefore  been  far 
short  of  my  wishes ;  and  on  this  account,  to  acknowledge  the  services 
daily  and  hourly  done  me  by  my  family  and  friends,  this  note  is 
written." — I.  F. 

1-2.  From  Samson  Agonistes,  init. 

11.  The  reference,  in  the  early  text,  to  Antigone  alludes  to  her 
guidance  of  her  blind  father  Oedipus  from  Thebes  to  Attica. 

31.  "abrupt  abyss"]:    From  Paradise  Lost,  ii.  405,  "The  dark, 
unbottomed,  infinite  Abyss",  and  ii.  409,  "the  vast  Abrupt". 

32.  plumy  vans] :   From  Paradise  Itegaind,  iv.  583. 

49—55.  (app.  crit.)  everlasting  gates  .  .  .  portals!]  reminiscent  of 
Paradise  Lost,  vii.  565-76. 

p.  94.  XXV.  ODE  TO  LYCOBIS:  "  The  discerning  reader,  who  is 
aware  that  in  the  poem  of  'Ellen  Irwin'  I  was  desirous  of  throwing 
the  reader  at  once  out  of  the  old  ballad,  so  as,  if  possible,  to  preclude 
a  comparison  between  that  mode  of  dealing  with  the  subject  and  the 
mode  I  meant  to  adopt — may  here  perhaps  perceive  that  this  poem 
originated  in  the  four  last  lines  of  the  first  stanza.  Those  specks  of 
snow,  reflected  in  the  lake  and  so  transferred,  as  it  were,  to  the  sub- 
aqueous sky,  reminded  me  of  the  swans  which  the  fancy  of  the  ancient 
classic  poets  yoked  to  the  car  of  Venus.  Hence  the  tenor  of  the  whole 
first  stanza,  and  the  name  of  Lycoris,  which — with  some  readers  who 
think  mythology  and  classical  allusion  too  far-fetched  and  therefore 
more  or  less  unnatural  and  affected — will  tend  to  unrealize  the  senti- 
ment that  pervades  these  verses.  But  sufely  one  who  has  written  so 
much  in  verse  as  I  have  done  may  be  allowed  to  retrace  his  steps 
in  the  regions  of  fancy  which  delighted  him  in  his  boyhood,  when  he 
first  became  acquainted  with  the  Greek  and  Roman  Poets.  Before 
I  read  Virgil  I  was  so  strongly  attached  to  Ovid,  whose  Metamor- 
phoses I  read  at  school,  that  I  was  quite  in  a  passion  whenever  I 
found  him,  in  books  of  criticism,  placed  below  Virgil.  As  to  Homer, 
I  was  never  weary  of  travelling  over  the  scenes  through  which  he  led 
me.  Classical  literature  affected  me  by  its  own  beauty.  But  the 
truths  of  scripture  having  been  entrusted  to  the  dead  languages,  and 
these  fountains  having  been  recently  laid  open  at  the  Reformation, 
an  importance  and  a  sanctity  were  at  that  period  attached  to  classical 
literature  that  extended,  as  is  obvious  in  Milton's  "Lycidas",  for 
example,  both  to  its  spirit  and  form  in  a  degree  that  can  never  be 

NOTES  423 

revived.  No  doubt  the  hackneyed  and  lifeless  use  into  which  mytho- 
logy fell  towards  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  which 
continued  through  the  eighteenth,  disgusted  the  general  reader  with 
all  allusion  to  it  in  modern  verse ;  and  though,  in  deference  to  this 
disgust,  and  also  in  a  measure  participating  in  it,  I  abstained  in  my 
earlier  writings  from  all  introduction  of  pagan  fable — surely,  even 
in  its  humble  form,  it  may  ally  itself  with  real  sentiment — as  I  can 
truly  affirm  it  did  in  the  present  case." — I.  F.  W.  took  the  name 
Lycoris  from  Virgil,  Eclogue,  x :  it  has  no  special  significance  for  him. 

p.  96.  XXVI.  To  THE  SAME:  "This  as  well  as  the  preceding  and 
the  two  that  follow  were  composed  in  front  of  Kydal  Mount  and 
during  my  walks  in  the  neighbourhood.  Nine-tenths  of  my  verses 
have  been  murmured  out  in  the  open  air;  and  here  let  me  repeat 
what  I  believe  has  already  appeared  in  print.  One  day  a  stranger 
having  walked  round  the  garden  and  grounds  of  Rydal  Mount  asked 
one  of  the  female  servants  who  happened  to  be  at  the  door,  permis- 
sion to  see  her  master's  study.  'This',  said  she,  leading  him  forward, 
*is  my  master's  library,  where  he  keeps  his  books,  but  his  study  is 
out  of  doors.'  After  a  long  absence  from  home  it  has  more  than  once 
happened  that  some  one  of  my  cottage  neighbours  has  said — 'Well, 
there  he  is ;  we  are  glad  to  hear  him  booing  about  again.'  Once  more, 
in  excuse  for  so  much  egotism,  let  me  say,  these  notes  are  written  for  my 
familiar  friends,  and  at  their  earnest  request.  Another  time  a  gentle- 
man whom  James  had  conducted  through  the  grounds  asked  him 
what  kind  of  plants  throve  best  there :  after  a  little  consideration  he 
answered — 'Laurels.'  'That  is',  said  the  stranger  'as  it  should  be ; 
don't  you  know  that  the  Laurel  is  the  emblem  of  Poetry,  and  that  the 
Poets  used  on  public  occasions  to  be  crowned  with  it  ?'  James  stared 
when  the  question  was  first  put,  but  was  doubtless  much  pleased 
with  the  information." — I.  F. 

Though  the  date  of  this  poem  as  a  whole  is  doubtless  1817, 11.  41 
ff.  have  a  much  earlier  source,  and  some  of  them  seem  to  have 
haunted  W.'s  mind  for  nearly  twenty  years.  In  the  draft  of  Nutting 
written  in  1798  (v.  Vol.  II,  p.  503)  is  found  a  form  of  11.  42-5,  and  in 
MS.  M  (1803-4)  are  the  following  verses  under  the  title  Travelling: 

This  is  the  spot : — how  mildly  does  the  sun 
Shine  in  between  the  fading  leaves !  the  air 
In  the  habitual  silence  of  this  wood 
Is  more  than  silent ;  and  this  bed  of  heath — 
Where  shall  we  find  so  sweet  a  resting-place  ? 
Come,  let  me  see  thee  sink  into  a  dream 
Of  quiet  thoughts,  protracted  till  thine  eye 
Be  calm  as  water  when  the  winds  are  gone 
And  no  one  can  tell  whither.  My  sweet  Friend, 
We  two  have  had  such  happy  hours  together 
That  my  heart  melts  in  me  to  think  of  it. 

424  NOTES 

This  is  the  poem  to  which  D.  W.  refers  in  her  Journal,  May  4,  1802 : 
"I  repeated  verses  to  William  while  he  was  in  bed ;  he  was  soothed  and 
I  left  him.  'This  is  the  spot'  over  and  over  again." 

And  at  the  close  of  a  note-book  containing  the  Duddon  Sonnets  is 
the  following: 

Here  let  us  rest, — here,  where  the  gentle  beams 
Of  noontide  stealing  in  between  the  boughs 
Illuminate  their  faded  leaves ;  the  air 
In  the  habitual  silence  of  this  wood 
Is  more  than  silent,  and  this  tuft  of  heath 
Decked  with  the  fulness  of  its  (bloom)  flowers  presents 
As  beautiful  a  coach  as  ere  was  framed. 
Come  let  us  venture  to  exchange  the  pomp1 
Of  wide -spread  landscape  for  the  internal  wealth 
Of  quiet  thought,  protracted  etc.  as  text  43-51,  but  in  1.  46 
blissful  for  happy. 

p.  98. .  XXVII  and  XXVIII.  v.  I.  F.  note  to  XXVI,  and  for  the 
redbreast's  autumn  song  cf.  Prelude,  vii.  18-31. 

p.  99.    XXVIII.   14.  my  leaf  is  sere]  Macbeth,  v.  iii.  23. 

42.  fierce  vindictive  song]  H.  T.  B/hoades  has  suggested  that  here, 
perhaps,  W.  was  recalling  Horace,  Odes,  iv.  ix.  7,  "Alcaei  minaces 

43—8.  A  reference  to  Sappho's  ode  to  Aphrodite. 

50.  The  wreck  of  Herculanean  lore]  K.  notes  that  during  the 
excavations  in  Herculaneum  in  1752,  1,800  charred  rolls  of  papyri 
were  discovered,  and  it  was  hoped  that  they  would  add  greatly  to  the 
corpus  of  classical  literature.  Simonides,  born  in  Ceos,  556  B.C.,  one 
of  the  most  celebrated  of  Greek  lyric  poets,  was  endeared  to  W.  by 
the  story  told  of  him  to  which  W.  refers  in  his  sonnet,  "I  find  it  written 
of  Simonides"  (v.  Vol.  Ill,  p.  408,  and  note,  p.  573),  and  in  his  Essay 
on  Epitaphs. 

p.  101.  XXIX.  MEMORY:  v.  I.  F.  note  to  Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf 
of  Macpherson's  Ossian  (p.  38),  p.  407  above. 

p.  102.  XXX.  This  Lawn,  a  carpet  all  alive:  "This  Lawn  is  the 
sloping  one  approaching  the  kitchen-garden,  and  was  made  out  of  it. 
Hundreds  of  times  have  I  watched  the  dancing  of  shadows  amid  a 
press  of  sunshine,  and  other  beautiful  appearances  of  light  and  shade, 
flowers  and  shrubs.  What  a  contrast  between  this  and  the  Cabbages 
and  Onions  and  Carrots  that  used  to  grow  there  on  a  piece  of  ugly- 
shaped  unsightly  ground!  No  reflection,  however,  either  upon  Cab- 
bages or  Onions ;  the  latter  we  know  were  worshipped  by  the  Egyp- 
tians, and  he  must  have  a  poor  eye  for  beauty  who  has  not  observed 
how  much  of  it  there  is  in  the  form  and  colour  which  Cabbages  and 

1  Corr.  to  Come,  thus  invited,  venture  to  exchange 

The  pomp  of  wide-spread  landscape  for  a  mood. 

NOTES  425 

plants  of  that  genus  exhibit  through  the  various  stages  of  their 
growth  and  decay.  A  richer  display  of  colour  in  vegetable  nature  can 
scarcely  be  conceived  than  Coleridge,  my  Sister,  and  I  saw  in  a  bed  of 
Potato-plants  in  blossom  near  a  hut  upon  the  moor  between  Inver- 
sneyd  and  Loch  Katrine.  These  blossoms  were  of  such  extraordinary 
beauty  and  richness  that  no  one  could  have  passed  them  without 
notice.  But  the  sense  must  be  cultivated  through  the  mind  before  we 
can  perceive  these  inexhaustible  treasures  of  Nature,  for  such  they 
really  are,  without  the  least  necessary  reference  to  the  utility  of  her 
productions,  or  even  to  the  laws  whereupon,  as  we  learn  by  research, 
they  are  dependent.  Some  are  of  opinion  that  the  habit  of  analysing, 
decomposing,  and  anatomizing  is  inevitably  unfavourable  to  the  per- 
ception of  beauty.  People  are  led  into  this  mistake  by  over-looking 
the  fact  that  such  processes  being  to  a  certain  extent  within  the  reach 
of  a  limited  intellect,  we  are  apt  to  ascribo  to  them  that  insensibility 
of  which  they  are  in  truth  the  effect  and  not  the  cause.  Admiration 
and  love,  to  which  all  knowledge  truly  vital  must  tend,  are  felt  by  men 
of  real  genius  in  proportion  as  their  discoveries  in  natural  Philosophy 
are  enlarged ;  and  the  beauty  in  form  of  a  plant  or  an  animal  is  not 
made  less  but  more  apparent  as  a  whole  by  more  accurate  insight  into 
its  constituent  properties  and  powers.  A  Savant  who  is  not  also  a  Poet  in 
soul  and  a  religionist  in  heart  is  a  feeble  and  unhappy  Creature." — I.  F. 

6.  strenuous  idleness]  A  phrase  already  used  by  W.  in  Prelude,  iv. 
378.  W.  owed  it  to  Horace,  Epistles,  I.  xi.  28,  "strenua  nos  exercet 
inertia",  v.  also  E.L.,  p.  48. 

p.  102.  XXXI.  HUMANITY:  Note  under  heading:  ". . .  at  this  day". 
* 'There  is  a  remarkable  one  upon  a  Moorland  Eminence  overlooking 
the  Vale  of  the  Nid  in  Yorkshire",  MS.  "These  verses  and  those  entitled 
Liberty  were  composed  as  one  piece,  which  Mrs.  Wordsworth  com- 
plained of  as  unwieldy  and  ill -proportioned ;  and  accordingly  it  was 
divided  into  two  on  her  judicious  recommendation." — I.  F. 

32.  Descending  to  the  worm  in  charity]  I  am  indebted,  here,  to  a 
passage  in  one  of  Mr.  Digby's  valuable  works— W.  (i.e.  Kenelm 
Digby,  1800-80,  author  of  The  Broadstone  of  Honour,  1822,  enlarged 

77.  Stone-walls  a  prisoner  make]  Lovelace,  To  Altheafrom  Prison,  45. 

77-94.   Cf.  Exc.  VIII  and  IX,  113-28. 

83.  "Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England"]  From  Cowper,  The  Task, 
ii.  40. 

89-90.  Idol,  falsely  called  "the  Wealth  of  Nations"]  Cf.  Prelude, 
xiii.  77. 

p.  106.  XXXII.  The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams:  In  one 
manuscript  this  poem  is  headed  Introduction  to  the  Somnambulist 
(v.  p.  49). 

5.  (app.  crit.)  at  dewy  eve  the  shutting  flowers]  Cf.  Paradise  Lost, 
ix.  278,  "at  shut  of  evening  flowers". 

426  NOTES 

10-17.  (app.  crit.)  "The  Hermit's  Cell,  nr.  Knaresboro."  MS. 
marginal  note. 

p.  107.  XXXIII.  THOUGHTS  ON  THE  SEASONS:  "Written  at  Rydal 
Mount,  1829."— I.  F. 

p.  107.  XXXIV.  To :  "To  I W on  the  birth  of  her 

first  child.  Written  at  Moresby  near  Whitehaven,  when  I  was  on  a 
visit  to  my  son,  then  Incumbent  of  that  small  living. 

"While  I  ana  dictating  these  notes  to  my  Friend,  Miss  Fenwick,  Janu- 
ary 24,  1843,  the  Child  upon  whose  birth  these  verses  were  written  is 
under  my  roof,  and  is  of  a  disposition  so  promising  that  the  wishes 
and  prayers  and  prophecies  which  I  then  breathed  forth  in  verse  are, 
through  God's  mercy,  likely  to  be  realized." — I.  F.  Isabella  (n6e 
Curwen),  wife  of  John  W.  The  quotation  that  heads  the  poem  is  from 
Lucretius  De  Rerum  Natura,  v.  223. 

p.  110.  XXXV.  THE  WABNING:  "These  lines  were  composed  during 
the  fever  spread  through  the  Nation  by  the  Reform  Bill.  As  the 
motives  which  led  to  this  measure,  and  the  good  or  evil  which  has 
attended  or  has  risen  from  it,  will  be  duly  appreciated  by  future 
Historians,  there  is  no  call  for  dwelling  on  the  subject  in  this  place. 
I  will  content  myself  with  saying  that  the  then  condition  of  the 
people's  mind  is  not,  in  these  verses,  exaggerated." — I.  F. 

In  a  letter  to  his  family  W.  spoke  of  this  poem  as  "a  sober  and 
sorrowful  sequel  to  [XXXIV]  which  I  fear  none  of  you  will  like"  (L.  Y., 
p.  645).  It  represents,  indeed,  the  lowest  depths  of  depression  to  which 
W.  sank  in  his  poetry,  though  it  can  be  paralleled  by  many  places  in 
his  letters  of  the  period. 

The  MS.  copy  of  the  Postscript  at  the  end  of  the  volume  of  1835, 
sent  to  the  Printer,  contains  the  following  opening  paragraphs,  after- 
wards cancelled  : 

"It  has  from  time  to  time  been  the  practice  of  the  Author  of  this 
volume,  since  he  was  first  interested  in  public  affairs,  to  express  in 
verse  the  feelings  with  which  he  regarded  them.  Accordingly  it  is 
known  to  all  who  have  read  his  poems,  that  he  rejoiced  in  the  opening 
of  the  French  Revolution ;  and  it  will  appear  hereafter,  from  his  un- 
published works,  h«w  deeply  he  deplored  the  excesses  into  which  the 
French  people  were  betrayed  in  its  progress.  His  Excursion,  Sonnets 
and  other  Pieces  afford  abundant  evidence  how  he  abhorred  the  abuses 
of  Power  that  Buonaparte  fell  into ;  how  he  sympathized  with  the 
Nations  that  suffered  from  the  Despot's  reckless  ambitions ;  and  how 
he  exalted  in  their  deliverance.  After  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  the 
course  of  public  events,  however  interesting  to  an  observing  and 
thoughtful  Mind,  was  of  a  less  exciting  and  therefore  of  a  less  poetic 
character,  and  he  confined  himself  to  subjects  not  so  discordant  in 
their  elements.  The  lines,  however,  in  the  present  volume  entitled 
*The  Warning',  both  by  the  occasion  that  suggested  them,  and  the 
manner  in  which  the  subject  is  treated,  show  that  recent  events  have 

NOTES  427 

intimately  touched  his  affections,  and  thrown  him  back  upon  sensa- 
tions akin  to  those  he  was  troubled  with  in  the  early  period  of  his  life. 
That  Poem  is  indeed  so  little  in  harmony  with  the  general  tenor  of 
his  writings  and  with  the  contents  of  this  volume  in  particular,  that 
it  seems  to  require  from  him  some  notice  in  plain  prose.  It  was 
written  for  one  of  the  best  reasons  which  in  a  poetical  case  can  be 
given,  viz.  that  the  author  could  not  help  writing  it ;  and  it  is  pub- 
lished because,  if  there  ever  was  a  time  when  such  a  warning  could 
be  of  the  least  service  to  any  portion  of  his  Countrymen,  that  time  is 
surely  not  passed  away. 

"The  agitation  attendant  upon  the  introduction,  and  carrying  of 
the  Reform  Bill  has  there  called  forth  a  strain  of  reprehension,  which 
as  far  as  concerns  the  Leaders  of  that  agitation  requires  neither 
explanation  nor  apology ;  they  are  spoken  of  with  a  warmth  of  indig- 
nant reproof  which  no  man  free  in  spirit  will  condemn,  if  it  will 
appear  that  the  feeling  has  been  kindled  by  reflective  patriotism: 
but  as  to  the  misled  multitude,  if  there  be  a  word  that  bears  hard 
upon  them,  the  Author  would  find  a  difficulty  in  forgiving  himself; 
for  even  the  semblance  of  such  a  thought  would  be  a  deviation  from 
his  habitual  feelings  towards  the  poor  and  humbly  employed;  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  has  been  passed  among  them,  he  has  not  been 
an  unthinking  observer  of  their  condition,  and  from  the  strongest  con- 
viction that  so  many  of  that  Class  are  seeking  their  happiness  in  ways 
which  cannot  lead  to  it  those  admonitions  proceeded." 

In  the  same  MS.  a  Note  following  the  text  of  the  poem  has  likewise 
been  cancelled : 

" Aware  that  expressions  of  regret  for  the  past  are  seldom  of  much 
use  as  a  preventive  of  future  evils,  the  Author  has  not  admitted 
without  reluctance  the  above  into  a  Collection  of  Poems  so  different 
from  it  in  character.  But  it  was  poured  out  in  sincerity  of  heart — 
and  the  heart  of  a  Poet  may  in  some  cases  be  trusted,  where  the 
opinion  of  a  practical  Statesman  is  erroneous :  at  all  events,  the  Verses, 
however  profitless  or  insignificant  they  may  appear  to  many,  could 
not  have  been  suppressed,  without  shrinking  from  what  the  Writer 
felt  (and  he  hopes  without  presumption)  to  be  a  duty  to  his  Country 
in  the  present  peril  of  her  social  Institutions." 

H.  C.  R.  was  perhaps  instrumental  in  making  W.  withdraw  both 
these  paragraphs.  He  was  acting  as  his  amanuensis  in  March  1835 
for  the  Notes  to  the  volume  of  1835,  and  writes :  "My  interference  was 
not  always  in  vain.  W.  will  aggravate  antipathies  by  his  polemical 
notes"  (H.  C.  R.  on  Books  and  their  Writers,  ed.  E.  Morley,  pp.  458-9). 

20—1*  "The  Warning  was  composed  on  horseback  while  I  was 
riding  from  Moresby  in  a  snowstorm.  Hence  [the]  simile."  W.  (quoted 
M.  ii.  476). 

23.  Lay,]  This  emendation  from  the  Lay.  of  the  texts  was  sug- 
gested by  Mr.  Nowell  C.  Smith. 

428  NOTES 

95.  If  to  expedience  principle  must  bow]  "Sound  minds  find  their 
expediency  in  principles;  unsound  their  principles  in  expediency." 
W.  to  J.  K.  Miller,  Dec.  1831  (L.Y.,  p.  591). 

p.  114.  XXXVI.  If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain:  Another  re- 
flection on  the  state  of  the  country  at  the  time  of  the  Reform  Bill. 
v.  W.'s  letter,  Dec.  6,  1833,  where  the  poem  is  quoted  under  the  head- 
ing "Addressed  to  Revolutionists  of  All  Classes'5  (L.Y.,  p.  680). 

p.  115.  XXXVII.  THE  LABOURER'S  NOON-DAY  HYMN:  "Bishop 
Ken's  'Morning  and  Evening  Hymns'  are,  as  they  deserve  to  be, 
familiarly  known.  Many  other  hymns  have  also  been  written  on  the 
same  subject ;  but,  not  being  aware  of  any  being  designed  for  Noon- 
day, I  was  induced  to  compose  these  verses.  Often  one  has  occasion 
to  observe  Cottage  children  carrying,  in  their  baskets,  dinner  to  their 
Fathers  engaged  with  their  daily  labours  in  the  fields  and  woods. 
How  gratifying  would  it  be  to  me  could  I  be  assured  that  any  portion 
of  these  stanzas  had  been  sung  by  such  a  domestic  concert  under  such 
circumstances.  A  friend  of  mine  has  told  me  that  she  introduced  this 
Hymn  into  a  Village -school  which  she  superintended,  and  the  stanzas 
in  succession  furnished  her  with  texts  to  comment  upon  in  a  way 
which  without  difficulty  was  made  intelligible  to  the  children,  and  in 
which  they  obviously  took  delight,  and  they  were  taught  to  sing  it 
to  the  tune  of  the  old  100th  Psalm." — I.  F. 

p.  116.  XXXVIII.  ODE  COMPOSED  ON  MAY  MORNING:  "This  and 
the  following  poem  originated  in  the  lines  'How  delicate  the  leafy 
veil',  etc.  [To  MAY  XXXIX,  1.  81]— My  daughter  and  I  left  Rydal 
Mount  upon  a  tour  through  our  mountains  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carr 
in  the  month  of  May,  1826,  and  as  we  were  going  up  the  vale  of 
Newlands  I  was  struck  with  the  appearance  of  the  little  Chapel 
gleaming  through  the  veil  of  half-opened  leaves ;  and  the  feeling 
which  was  then  conveyed  to  my  mind  was  expressed  in  the  stanza 
that  follows.  As  in  the  case  of  'Liberty'  and  'Humanity',  my  first 
intention  was  to  write  only  one  poem,  but  subsequently  I  broke  it 
into  two,  making  additions  to  each  part  so  as  to  produce  a  consistent 
and  appropriate  whole." — I.  F. 

An  early  draft  in  D.  W.'s  hand  with  additions  by  W.  W.  contains 
stanzas  from  both  this  poem  and  the  next. 

p.  118.  XXXIX.  To  MAY:  "As  I  passed  through  the  tame  and 
manufacture -disfigured  country  of  Lancashire  I  was  reminded  by  the 
faded  leaves,  of  Spring,  and  threw  off  a  few  stanzas  of  an  ode  to  May." 
W.  to  W.  R.  Hamilton,  Nov.  1830  (L.Y.,  p.  538). 

59.  rathe  primrose]  Lycidas,  142. 

78-80.  gentle  mists  etc.}  Cf.  Anacreon,  37-45  (Vol.  I,  p.  262)  and 
note  (p.  361). 

p.  120.  XL.  LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  PORTRAIT,  etc. :  "This  portrait 
has  hung  for  many  years  in  our  principal  sitting-room,  and  repre- 
sents J.  Q.  [Jemima  Quillinan]  as  she  was  when  a  girl.  The  picture, 

NOTES  420 

though  it  is  somewhat  thinly  painted,  has  much  merit  in  tone  and 
general  effect ;  it  is  chiefly  valuable,  however,  from  the  sentiment  that 
pervades  it.  The  Anecdote  of  the  saying  of  the  Monk  in  sight  of 
Titian's  picture  was  told  in  this  house  by  Mr.  Wilkie,  and  was,  I 
believe,  first  communicated  to  the  Public  in  this  Poem,  the  former 
portion  of  which  I  was  composing  at  the  time.  Southey  heard  the 
story  from  Miss  Hutchinson,  and  transferred  it  to  'The  Doctor' ;  but 
it  is  not  easy  to  explain  how  my  friend  Mr.  Rogers,  in  a  note  subse- 
quently added  to  his  'Italy',  was  led  to  speak  of  the  same  remarkable 
words  having  many  years  before  been  spoken  in  his  hearing  by  a 
Monk  or  Priest  in  front  of  a  picture  of  the  Last  Supper,  placed  over 
a  Refectory -table  in  a  convent  at  Padua." — I.  F. 

"Talking  of  composition  [Rogers]  showed  me  a  note  to  his  'Italy', 
which,  he  says,  took  him  a  fortnight  to  write.  It  consists  of  a  very 
few  lines.  W.  has  amplified  the  idea  of  this  note  in  his  poem  on  the 
picture  of  Miss  Quillinan,  by  Stone.  Rogers  says,  and  I  think  truly, 
that  the  prose  is  better  than  the  poem.  The  thought  intended  to  be 
expressed  is,  that  the  picture  is  the  substance,  and  the  beholders  are 
the  shadows."  H.  C.  R.,  Diary  for  Feb.  23,  1837.  Rogers's  note  runs: 
"  'You  admire  that  picture,'  said  an  old  Dominican  to  me  at  Padua, 
as  I  stood  contemplating  a  Last  Supper  in  the  Refectory  of  his 
Convent,  the  figures  as  large  as  the  life.  'I  have  sat  at  my  meals 
before  it  for  seven  and  forty  years ;  and  such  are  the  changes  that 
have  taken  place  among  us — so  many  have  come  and  gone  in  the 
time — that,  when  I  look  upon  the  company  there — upon  those  who 
are  sitting  at  that  table,  silent  as  they  are — I  am  sometimes  inclined 
to  think  that  we,  and  not  they,  are  the  shadows.1  " 

The  poem  is  headed  in  the  MS.  "Poem  by  W.  on  Mima's  portrait 
by  Stone."  Appended  to  it  is  the  following:  "Wilkie  was  the  painter 
to  whom  this  affecting  incident  occurred  (I  know  it  is  not  proper  to 
say  'incident  occurred',  but  I  know  not  what  other  word  to  use)  and 
he  told  it  to  me  when  at  Rydal  the  other  day."  There  seems,  there- 
fore, little  doubt  that  Rogers  owed  the  story  to  Wordsworth. 

p.  125.  XLII.  So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive:  The  incident 
which  gave  rise  to  the  composition  of  this  poem  has  been  recorded 
by  several  persons.  R.  P.  Graves  recalls  the  walk  to  Longrigg  Tarn 
with  W.,  Professor  Archer  Butler,  Sir  William  Hamilton,  and  Julius 
C.  Hare:  "The  splendour  of  a  July  noon  surrounded  us,  and  lit  up 
the  landscape  with  the  Langdale  Pikes  soaring  above,  and  the  bright 
Tarn  shining  beneath ;  and  when  the  poet's  eyes  were  satisfied  with 
their  feast  on  the  beauties  familiar  to  them,  they  sought  relief  in  the 
search,  to  them  a  happy  vital  habit,  for  new  beauty  in  the  flower- 
enamelled  turf  at  his  feet.  There  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  fair 
smooth  stone,  of  the  size  of  an  ostrich's  egg,  seeming  to  imbed  at  its 
centre,  and  at  the  same  time  to  display  a  dark  star-shaped  fossil  of 
most  distinct  outline.  Upon  closer  inspection  this  proved  to  be  the 

430  NOTES 

shadow  of  a  daisy  projected  upon  it  with  extraordinary  precision 
by  the  intense  light  of  an  almost  vertical  sun.  The  poet  drew  the 
attention  of  the  rest  of  the  party  to  the  minute  but  beautiful  pheno- 
menon, and  gave  expression  at  the  time  to  thoughts  suggested  by  it." 
And  on  Sept.  14,  1844,  J.  C.  Hare  wrote  to  W. :  "One  of  the  brightest 
days  in  those  happy  three  weeks  was  that  on  which  we  accompanied 
you  to  Loughrigg  Tarn;  for  that  walk  bore  its  part  in  ripening  our 
previous  friendship,  if  I  may  not  call  it  our  fraternal  affection,  into 
something  still  dearer  and  better ;  nor  shall  I  ever  forget  your  stopping 
and  drawing  our  attention  to  the  exquisitely  pencilled  shadow  the 
daisy  cast  upon  a  neighbouring  stone.  I  remember  saying  at  the 
time  'We  shall  have  a  sonnet  upon  it,'  and  this  probably  has  been 
fulfilled,  I  rejoice  to  learn,  save  that,  instead  of  the  sonnet,  you  have 
adopted  a  new  form  of  verse, — that  is,  new,  I  believe,  in  your  writings, 
in  composing  the  beautiful  triplets  you  have  had  the  kindness  to 
send."  . 

16.   (app.  crit.)  K.  misread  "bond"  for  "bred". 

OF  PABADISE:  "I  cannot  forbear  to  record  that  the  last  seven  lines 
of  this  Poem  were  composed  in  bed  during  the  night  of  the  day  on 
which  my  sister  Sara  Hutchinson  died  about  6  p.m.,  and  it  was 
the  thought  of  her  innocent  and  beautiful  life  that,  through  faith, 
prompted  the  words — 

*On  wings  that  fear  no  glance  of  God's  pure  sight, 
No  tempest  from  his  breath.5 

The  reader  will  find  two  poems  on  pictures  of  this  bird  among  my 
Poems.  I  will  here  observe  that  in  a  far  greater  number  of  instances 
than  have  been  mentioned  in  these  notes  one  Poem  has,  as  in  this  case, 
grown  out  of  another,  either  because  I  felt  the  subject  had  been 
inadequately  treated,  or  that  the  thoughts  and  images  suggested  in 
course  of  composition  have  been  such  as  I  found  interfered  with  the 
unity  indispensable  to  every  work  of  Art,  however  humble  in  charac- 
ter."— I.  F.  For -the  other  poem  on  this  subject  v.  Vol.  II,  p.  320. 
S.  H.  died  on  June  23rd,  1835. 

These  sonnets  were  first  placed  in  one  group  in  1845. 

In  the  1835  volume  this  sonnet  was  placed  after  "If  this  great  world 
of  joy  and  pain",  and  the  following  note  was  appended:  "This  sonnet 
ought  to  have  followed  No.  VII  in  the  series  of  1831  [i.e.  Composed  in 
the  Glen  of  Loch  Etive,  v.  vol.  Ill,  p.  268],  but  was  omitted  by  mistake." 
In  ed.  1837  it  had  that  position. 

NOTES  431 

p.  128.  II.  UPON  THE  LATE  GENEBAL  FAST:  In  1832  this  sonnet  was 
placed  among  Epitaphs  and  Elegiac  Pieces,  with  the  title  Sonnet  on 
the  late  General  Fast,  March  21,  1832,  in  1837  with  the  Miscellaneous 
Sonnets,  Part  III.  The  "General  Fast"  was  enjoined  because  of 
a  serious  epidemic  of  cholera  which  had  broken  out  in  the  previous 
year  (v.  L.Y.,  p.  585). 

p.  129.  III.  Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud:  First  published 
in  the  sonnet -volume  of  1838  in  a  note  to  Protest  Against  the  Ballot, 
(v.  Vol.  Ill,  p.  411).  It  was  preceded  in  the  note  by  the  following 
comment:  "Having  in  this  notice  alluded  only  in  general  terms  to 
the  mischief  which,  in  my  opinion,  the  Ballot  would  bring  along  with 
it,  without  especially  branding  its  immoral  and  anti -social  tendency, 
(for  which  no  political  advantages,  were  they  a  thousand  times 
greater  than  those  presumed  upon,  could  be  a  compensation)  I  have 
been  impelled  to  subjoin  a  reprobation  of  it  upon  that  score.  In  no 
part  of  my  writings  have  I  mentioned  the  name  of  any  contemporary, 
that  of  Buonaparte  only  excepted,  but  for  the  purpose  of  eulogy; 
and  therefore,  as  in  the  concluding  verse  of  what  follows  there  is  a 
deviation  from  this  rule  (for  the  blank  will  be  easily  filled  up)  I  have 
excluded  the  Sonnet  from  the  body  of  the  collection,  and  placed  it  here 
as  a  public  record  of  my  detestation,  both  as  a  man  and  a  citizen,  of 
the  proposed  contrivance." 

A  MS.  copy  of  the  sonnet,  with  "Grote"  in  place  of  the  " "  in 

1.  14  is  found  in  a  letter  of  W.  to  Dora  W.,  March  1838.  On  March 
10,  1838,  he  sent  it  to  John  W.,  saying  that  he  could  not  include  it 
in  the  sonnet -volume,  but  suggesting  that  he  might  send  it,  anony- 
mously, to  the  Canterbury  Chronicle  (v.  L.Y.,  p.  918). 

George  Grote  (1794-1871),  the  historian  of  Greece,  was  one  of  the 
"philosophical  Radicals".  He  was  M.P.  for  London  1832-41.  In 
politics  he  was  especially  associated  with  voting  by  ballot,  on  which 
he  wrote  a  pamphlet  in  1821,  and  which  he  advocated  in  the  House 
in  four  motions  (1833,  1835,  1836,  1839)  and  two  bills  (1836  and  1837). 
His  cause  was  only  gained  shortly  before  his  death. 

p.  129.  IV.  Blest  Statesman  he  etc, :  14.  (v.  app.  crit.)  "All  change  is 
perilous  and  all  chance  unsound."  Spenser. — W.  (F.Q.  v.  xii.  30). 

p.  130.  V.  IN  ALLUSION  TO  VARIOUS  RECENT  HISTORIES  :  Carlyle's 
French  Revolution  had  appeared  in  1837. 

9-10.  the  wrath  of  Man  Works  not  the  righteousness  of  God] 
Epistle  of  St.  James,  i.  20. 

p.  131.  VIII.  Men  of  the  Western  World:  These  lines  were  written 
several  years  ago,  when  reports  prevailed  of  cruelties  committed  in 
many  parts  of  America,  by  men  making  a  law  of  their  own  passions. 
A  far  more  formidable,  as  being  a  more  deliberate  mischief,  has 
appeared  among  those  States,  which  have  lately  broken  faith  with 
the  public  creditor  in  a  manner  so  infamous.  I  cannot,  however,  but 
look  at  both  evils  under  a  similar  relation  to  inherent  good,  and  hope 

432  NOTES 

that  the  time  is  not  distant  when  our  brethren  of  the  West  will  wipe 
off  this  stain  from  their  name  and  nation. — W.  1842. 

Additional  Note :  I  am  happy  to  add  that  this  anticipation  is  already 
partly  realised;  and  that  the  reproach  addressed  to  the  Pennsylva- 
nians  in  the  next  sonnet  is  no  longer  applicable  to  them.  I  trust  that 
those  other  States  to  which  it  may  yet  apply  will  soon  follow  the 
example  now  set  them  by  Philadelphia,  and  redeem  their  credit  with 
the  world. — W.  1850.  v.  note  to  next  sonnet.  The  MS.  readings  in 
app.  crit.  are  from  W.'s  letter  to  H.  Reed,  Dec.  23,  1839. 

5.  (app.  crit.)  "altered  .  .  .  not  in  the  hope  of  substituting  a  better 
verse,  but  merely  to  avoid  the  repetition  of  the  word  'brook'  which 
occurs  as  a  Rhyme  in  the  Pilgrim  Fathers". — W.  to  H.  Reed,  Sept.  4, 

13.  Cf.  Sonnet,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  119.  England!  the  time  is  come  .  .  . 
1.  3.  "The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood." 

p.  132.  IX.  To  THE  PENNSYLVANIANS  :  Written  at  some  date 
between  1841  and  the  end  of  Feb.  1845.  W.'s  correspondence  with 
Henry  Reed  shows  that  during  all  this  period  he  was  much  troubled 
by  the  stoppage  of  payment  of  Pennsylvanian  Bonds,  in  which  both 
his  brother  Christopher  and  Miss  Fenwick  had  large  holdings.  His 
fears  (encouraged  by  a  rumour  "from  a  private  quarter",  which  he 
reported  to  Reed  on  Nov.  18,  1844)  that  the  State  of  Pennsylvania 
would  repudiate  their  obligations,  proved  groundless,  for  in  Feb.  1845 
payment  was  resumed  and  the  note  (v.  supra)  added  to  his  ed.  of  1860 
was  inserted  at  the  request  of  Reed  made  in  two  letters  dated  April  2 
and  Dec.  10,  1849 — that  note  was  probably  W.'s  last  composition 
for  the  press. 

9.  William  Perm  (1644-1718),  Quaker  and  founder  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, the  land  for  which  was  granted  to  him  by  the  Duke  of  York  in 
March  1680-1. 

p.  132.  X.  AT  BOLOGNA:  "This  and  the  following  were  suggested 
at  Bologna,  and  other  cities  in  the  North  of  Italy."  MS.  note.  In 
1842  they  were  published  among  the  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Italy, 
1837.  For  their  significance  in  the  history  of  W.'s  political  thought 
v.  Batho,  The  Later  Wordsworth,  pp.  146-9. 

p.  134.  XIII.  YOUNG  ENGLAND:  "W.  was  in  excellent  spirits, 
and  repeated  with  a  solemn  beauty,  quite  peculiar  to  himself,  a 
sonnet  he  had  lately  composed  on  'Young  England',  and  his  indignant 
burst,  'Where,  then,  is  old,  our  dear  old  England  ?',  was  one  of  the 
finest  bursts  of  nature  and  art  combined  that  I  ever  heard."  Lady 
Richardson,  Reminiscences,  Feb.  9,  1845. 

p.  134.  XIV.  Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken:  "This  sonnet  is 
recommended  to  the  perusal  of  the  Anti-Corn  Law  Leaguers,  the 
Political  Economists,  and  of  all  those  who  consider  that  the  Evils 
tinder  which  we  groan  are  to  be  removed  or  palliated  by  measures 
ungoverned  by  moral  and  religious  principles." — I.  F. 

NOTES  433 


In  a  long  review  of  W.'s  Sonnets ,  1838,  in  The  Quarterly  for  Dec. 
1841,  Sir  Henry  Taylor  included  "a  short  series  written  two  years  ago, 
which  we  have  been  favoured  with  a  permission  to  present  to  the 
public  for  the  first  time.  It  was  suggested  by  the  recent  discussions  in 
parliament  and  elsewhere  on  the  subject  of  Punishment  by  Death." 

In  1836  a  report  by  the  Commissioners  on  Criminal  Law  had  been 
laid  before  Parliament,  with  the  result  that  in  July  1837  Acts  were 
passed  which  removed  the  death  penalty  from  about  200  offences  (for 
most  of  which  it  was  already  in  practice  obsolete),  and  left  it  appli- 
cable only  to  high  treason,  murder  and  attempted  murder,  rape,  arson 
with  danger  to  life,  piracies,  burglaries,  and  robberies  when  aggrava- 
ted by  cruelty  and  violence.  But  some  members  of  the  House,  who 
had  a  considerable  backing  in  the  country,  had  conscientious  objec- 
tions to  the  infliction  of  the  death  penalty  for  any  crime,  and  as  an 
instalment  towards  total  abolition  brought  in  a  Bill  to  remove  it  from 
all  offences  except  treason  and  murder ;  as  a  compromise  the  crime  of 
rape  was  further  omitted  from  the  list.  "Thus",  says  Taylor,  "the 
broad  question  which  is  left  for  the  country  to  look  at,  in  respect  to 
the  punishment  by  death,  is  in  effect  its  abolition.  It  is  to  this  ques- 
tion that  Mr.  W.'s  Sonnets  refer;  and  the  general  drift  of  the  senti- 
ments which  they  express  is  that  there  is  a  deeper  charity  and  a  more 
enlarged  view  of  religious  obligations  than  that  which  would  dictate 
such  a  measure  in  this  country  in  the  present  state  of  society."  The 
sonnets  follow,  with  Taylor's  running  commentary  upon  them. 

p.  135.  I.  10.  pass'd]  v.  app.  crit.  Cf.  Note  to  Artegal  and  Elidure, 
195  (Vol.  II,  p.  469),  and  Duddon  Sonnet  XV.  14,  past  corr.  to  pass'd. 

p.  136.  III.  1.  The  Roman  Consul]  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  who 
incited  the  Romans  to  expel  the  Tarquins,  and  upon  their  banishment 
was  elected  first  consul :  he  put  to  death  his  two  sons  who  had  attemp- 
ted to  restore  the  Tarquins. 

p.  138.  VIII.  14.  "wild  justice  of  revenge"]  Bacon's  Essays.  Cf. 
Revenge,  init. :  * 'Revenge  is  a  kinde  of  Wilde  Justice ;  which  the  more 
Man's  Nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought  Law  to  weed  it  out." 


poem  opened,  when  first  written,  with  a  paragraph  that  has  been 
transferred  as  an  introduction  to  the  first  series  of  my  Scotch  Memo- 
rials. The  journey,  of  which  the  first  part  is  here  described,  was  from 
Grasmere  to  Bootle  on  the  south-west  coast  of  Cumberland,  the  whole 
among  mountain  roads  through  a  beautiful  country,  and  we  had  fine 
weather.  The  verses  end  with  our  breakfast  at  the  head  of  Yewdale 
in  a  yeoman's  house,  which,  like  all  the  other  property  in  that 

917.17  IV  F  f 

434  NOTES 

sequestered  vale,  has  passed  or  is  passing  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  James 
Marshall  of  Monk  Coniston, — in  Mr.  Knott's,  the  late  owner's,  time 
called  Waterhead.  Our  hostess  married  a  Mr.  Oldfield,  a  Lieut,  in 
the  Navy:  they  lived  together  for  some  time  at  Hackett  where  she 
still  resides  as  his  widow.  It  was  in  front  of  that  house,  on  the 
mountain  side,  near  which  stood  the  Peasant  who,  while  we  were 
passing  at  a  distance,  saluted  us,  waving  a  kerchief  in  her  hand  as 
described  in  the  Poem.  (This  matron  and  her  husband  were  then 
residing  at  the  Hackett.  The  house  and  its  inmates  are  referred  to  in 
the  fifth  book  of  the  'Excursion',  in  the  passage  beginning — 

'You  behold, 

High  on  the  breast  of  yon  dark  mountain,  dark 
With  stony  barrenness,  a  shining  speck.' — J.  C.1) 

The  dog  which  we  met  with  soon  after  our  starting  belonged  to  Mr. 
Rowlandson,  who  for  forty  years  was  curate  of  Grasmere  in  place  of 
the  rector,  who  lived  to  extreme  old  age  in  a  state  of  insanity.  Of  this 
Mr.  R.  much  might  be  said  both  with  reference  to  his  character,  and 
the  way  in  which  he  was  regarded  by  his  parishioners.  He  was  a  man 
of  a  robust  frame,  had  a  firm  voice  and  authoritative  manner,  of 
strong  natural  talents,  of  which  he  was  himself  conscious,  for  he  has 
been  heard  to  say  (it  grieves  me  to  add  with  an  oath) — 'If  I  had  been 
brought  up  at  college  by  —  I  should  have  been  a  Bishop.'  Two  vices 
used  to  struggle  in  him  for  mastery,  avarice  and  the  love  of  strong 
drink:  but  avarice,  as  is  common  in  like  cases,  always  got  the  better 
of  its  opponent ;  for,  though  he  was  often  intoxicated,  it  was  never, 
I  believe,  at  his  own  expense.  As  has  been  said  of  one  in  a  more 
exalted  station,  he  would  take  any  given  quantity.  I  have  heard  a 
story  of  him  which  is  worth  the  telling.  One  summer's  morning,  our 
Grasmere  curate,  after  a  night's  carouse  in  the  vale  of  Langdale,  on 
his  return  home,  having  reached  a  point  near  which  the  whole  of  the 
vale  of  Grasmere  might  be  seen  with  the  lake  immediately  below  him, 
stepped  aside  and  sat  down  on  the  turf.  After  looking  for  some  time 
at  the  landscape,  then  in  the  perfection  of  its  morning  beauty,  he 
exclaimed — 'Good-God,  that  I  should  have  led  so  long  a  life  in  such 
a  place!' — This  no  doubt  was  deeply  felt  by  him  at  the  time,  but  I 
am  not  authorised  to  say  that  any  noticeable  amendment  followed : 
penuriousness  strengthened  upon  him  as  his  body  grew  feebler  with 
age.  He  had  purchased  property  and  kept  some  land  in  his  own 
hands,  but  he  could  not  find  in  his  heart  to  lay  out  the  necessary  hire 
for  labourers  at  the  proper  season,  and  consequently  he  has  often 
been  seen  in  half -dotage  working  his  hay  in  the  month  of  November 
by  moonlight,  a  melancholy  sight  which  I  myself  have  witnessed. 
Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said,  this  man,  on  account  of  his 

1  "J.  C."  i.e.,  John  Carter,  Wordsworth's  clerk,  who  saw  the  "I.  F."  notes 
through  the  press  in  1857.  The  reference  is  to  Exc.  v.  670  ff. 

NOTES  435 

talents  and  superior  education,  was  looked  up  to  by  his  parishioners, 
who,  without  a  single  exception,  lived  at  that  time  (and  most  of  them 
upon  their  own  small  inheritances)  in  a  state  of  republican  equality, 
a  condition  favorable  to  the  growth  of  kindly  feelings  among  them, 
and  in  a  striking  degree  exclusive  to  temptations  to  gross  vice  and 
scandalous  behaviour.  As  a  Pastor  their  curate  did  little  or  nothing 
for  them ;  but  what  could  more  strikingly  set  forth  the  efficacy  of  the 
Church  of  England  through  its  Ordinances  and  Liturgy  than  that,  in 
spite  of  the  unworthiness  of  the  Minister,  his  Church  was  regularly 
attended ;  and,  though  there  was  not  much  appearance  in  his  flock  of 
what  might  be  called  animated  piety,  intoxication  was  rare,  and  dis- 
solute morals  unknown  ?  With  the  Bible  they  were  for  the  most  part 
well  acquainted ;  and,  as  was  strikingly  shown  when  they  were  under 
affliction,  must  have  been  supported  and  comforted  by  habitual 
belief  in  those  truths  which  it  is  the  aim  of  the  Church  to  inculcate. 
'  'Loughrigg  Tarn.  This  beautiful  pool  and  the  surrounding  scene  are 
minutely  described  in  my  little  Book  upon  the  Lakes.  Sir  G.  H.  B., 
in  the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  was  induced,  by  his  love  of  Nature  and 
the  art  of  painting,  to  take  up  his  abode  at  Old  Brathay,  about  three 
miles  from  this  spot,  so  that  he  must  have  seen  it  under  many  aspects ; 
and  he  was  so  much  pleased  with  it  that  he  purchased  the  Tarn  with 
a  view  to  build,  near  it,  such  a  residence  as  is  alluded  to  in  this  Epistle. 
Baronets  and  knights  were  not  so  common  in  that  day  as  now,  and 
Sir  Michael  le  Fleming,  not  liking  to  have  a  rival  in  this  kind  of  dis- 
tinction so  near  him,  claimed  a  sort  of  Lordship  over  the  Territory, 
and  showed  dispositions  little  in  unison  with  those  of  Sir.  G.  Beau- 
mont, who  was  eminently  a  lover  of  peace.  The  project  of  building 
was  in  consequence  given  up,  Sir  G.  retaining  possession  of  the  Tarn. 
Many  years  afterwards  a  Kendal  tradesman  born  upon  its  banks 
applied  to  me  for  the  purchase  of  it,  and  accordingly  it  was  sold  for 
the  sum  that  had  been  given  for  it,  and  the  money  was  laid  out  under 
my  direction  upon  a  substantial  oak  fence  for  a  certain  number  of 
yew  trees  to  be  planted  in  Grasmere  churchyard ;  two  were  planted 
in  each  enclosure,  with  a  view  to  remove,  after  a  certain  time,  the  one 
which  throve  the  least.  After  several  years,  the  stouter  plant  being 
left,  the  others  were  taken  up  and  placed  in  other  parts  of  the  same 
churchyard,  and  were  adequately  fenced  at  the  expense  and  under 
the  care  of  the  late  Mr.  Barber,  Mr.  Greenwood,  and  myself:  the  whole 
eight  are  now  thriving,  and  are  already  an  ornament  to  a  place  which, 
during  late  years,  has  lost  much  of  its  rustic  simplicity  by  the  intro- 
duction of  iron  palisades  to  fence  off  family  burying-grounds,  and  by 
numerous  monuments,  some  of  them  in  very  bad  taste ;  from  which 
this  place  of  burial  was  in  my  memory  quite  free.  See  the  lines  in  the 
sixth  book  of  'The  Excursion'  beginning — 'Green  is  the  churchyard', 
— The  'Epistle'  to  which  these  notes  refer,  though  written  so  fax  back 
as  1804  [1811 — ED.],  was  carefully  revised  so  late  as  1842,  previous 

436  NOTES 

to  its  publication.  I  am  loth  to  add,  that  it  was  never  seen  by  the 
person  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  So  sensible  am  I  of  the  deficiencies 
in  all  that  I  write,  and  so  far  does  everything  that  I  attempt  fall  short 
of  what  I  wish  it  to  be,  that  even  private  publication,  if  such  a  term 
may  be  allowed,  requires  more  resolution  than  I  can  command.  I 
have  written  to  give  vent  to  my  own  mind,  and  not  without  hope 
that,  some  time  or  other,  kindred  minds  might  benefit  by  my  labours : 
but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  I  should  never  have  ventured  to  send 
forth  any  verses  of  mine  to  the  world  if  it  had  not  been  done  on  the 
pressure  of  personal  occasions.  Had  I  been  a  rich  man,  my  produc- 
tions, like  this  'Epistle',  the  tragedy  of  'The  Borderers',  etc.,  would 
most  likely  have  been  confined  to  manuscript." — I.  F. 

For  the  delay  in  publishing  the  Epistle  v.  Note  to  Misc.  Sonnets, 
Part  I.  iv  (Vol.  Ill,  p.  419). 

There  axe  four  manuscripts  of  the  poem,  the  copy  used  for  press, 
and  three  others  very  little  earlier  in  date :  that  no  one  of  them  goes 
back  to  the  date  of  composition  is  shown  by  the  absence  of  the  lines 
utilized  for  the  introductory  poem  to  the  Scottish  Tour  of  1803.  (v. 
Vol.  Ill,  p.  64.) 

5.  Black  Comb]  v.  Poems  of  Imagination,  xxxviii  (Vol.  II,  p.  289), 
Itinerary  Poems  of  1833,  XII.  supra,  p.  30,  and  Inscriptions,  VI, 
supra,  p.  199. 

40—1.  Phoebus  .  .  .  attendant  on  Thessalian  flocks]  Apollo,  con- 
demned by  Zeus  to  serve  a  mortal  for  a  year,  as  a  punishment  for 
having  slain  the  Cyclops,  pastured  the  flocks  of  Admetus  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  Amphrysus. 

66.  House  of  Keys]  The  Manx  House  of  Commons,  said  to  be  so 
called  because  its  twenty-four  members  are  the  keepers  of  the  liberties 
of  the  people. 

77-88.  Of.  W.  W.'s  letter  to  Sir  G.  B.  of  Aug.  28,  1811  (M.Y., 
p.  469). 

84.  telegraph]  the  name  first  applied  to  a  device  for  signalling,  an 
upright  post  with  movable  arms,  invented  by  Chappe  in  France  in 

111.  Gowdar]  Gowdar  Crag  is  by  Lodore  Falls  in  Borrowdale,  not, 
therefore,  on  the  route  of  the  travellers,  but  merely  referred  to  as  the 
scene  of  their  charioteer's  girlhood. 

113.  those  Infants  dear]  Catharine  and  Thomas;  they  both  died 
in  the  following  year  (1812).  (v.  Epilogue  to  the  poem.) 

153.  Archimago]  The  false  enchanter  of  the  Faerie  Queene;  there 
is  no  reference  to  any  specific  incident  in  the  poem. 

161.  wild  Arden's  brakes]  W.  is  probably  thinking  of  the  song  of 
Amiens,  "Under  the  green  wood  tree'*,  in  As  You  Like  It,  n.  v. 

246-7.  butter  fit  to  lie  Upon  a  lordly  dish]  A  reference  to  the  story 
of  Jael  and  Sisera  in  the  Song  of  Deborah  (Judges  v.  25).  In  one 
Manuscript  "lordly  dish"  is  put  in  italics. 

NOTES  437 

p.  151.  II.  GOLD  AND  SILVEB  FISHES  IN  A  VASE:  "They  were  a 
present  from  Miss  Jewsbury,  of  whom  mention  is  made  in  the  note  at 
the  end  of  the  next  poem.  The  fish  were  healthy  to  all  appearance 
for  a  long  time,  but  at  last,  for  some  cause  we  could  not  make  out, 
they  languished,  and,  one  of  them  being  dead,  they  were  taken  to  the 
pool  under  the  Pollard-oak.  The  apparently  dying  one  lay  on  its  side 
unable  to  move.  I  used  to  watch  it,  and  about  the  tenth  day  it  began 
to  right  itself,  and  in  a  few  days  was  able  to  swim  about  with  its 
companions.  For  many  months  they  continued  to  prosper  in  their 
new  place  of  abode ;  but  one  night  by  an  unusually  great  flood  they 
were  swept  out  of  the  pool,  and  perished  to  our  great  regret." — I.  F. 
On  Miss  Maria  Jane  Jewsbury  v.  L.Y.,  pp.  198  and  398,  and  Misc. 
Sonnets,  in.  xiii.  A  copy  of  the  poem  sent  by  Dora  W.  to  E.  Q.  on 
Dec.  19,  1829,  is  headed  with  the  motrto 
"O  mutis  quoque  piscibus 
Donaturi  cycni,  si  libeat,  sonum!" 

From  1837  to  1843  it  was  placed  among  Poems  of  Sentiment  and 

1  -2.  lark  ...  at  heaven's  gate]  From  the  song  in  Cymbeline,  n.  ii.  22. 

7—8.  something  more  than  dull  content]  From  the  Countess  of 
Winchelsea,  v.  Misc.  Sonnets,  Dedication,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  1,  and  W.'s 
note,  p.  418. 

p.  153.  III.  LIBERTY:  "The  connection  of  this  with  the  preceding 
Poem  is  sufficiently  obvious." — I.  F.  and  v.  I.  F.  note  to  Humanity, 
p.  425.  The  motto  is  taken  from  the  opening  sentences  of  Cowley's 
Essay  on  Liberty. 

2.  Anna:  Mrs.  Fletcher,  nee  Jewsbury. 

8.  living  well]  from  Spenser,  F.Q.,  I.  ii.  43. 

60-5.   Is  there  a  cherished  bird  etc.]   The  Squieres  Tale,  603-9. 

91.  the  path  that  winds  by  stealth]  Mr.  Nowell  Smith  notes  the 
reminiscence  of  Horace,  Epistles,  i.  xviii.  103:  "An  secretum  iter  et 
fallentis  semita  vitae."  For  "the  Sabine  farm  he  loved  so  well"  (103) 
v.  Odes,  n.  xviii,  "Satis  beatus  unicis  Sabinis",  and  for  Blandusia  ( 104)  v. 
note  to  Musings  near  Aquapendente,  255-62,  Vol.  Ill,  p.  492. 

111—19.  In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene]  This  passage  on  the 
* 'melancholy  Cowley"  is  obviously  reminiscent  of  Cowley's  poem 
The  Complaint,  especially  11.  1-7 : 

In  a  deep  Vision's  intellectual  scene 

Beneath  a  Bow'r  for  sorrow  made, 

Th'  uncomfortable  shade, 

Of  the  black  Yew's  unlucky  green, 

Mixt  with  the  mourning  Willow's  careful  gray, 

Where  reverend  Cham  cuts  out  his  famous  way, 

The  Melancholy  Cowley  lay. 

p.  158.   IV.   POOK  ROBIN:  "I  often  ask  myself  what  will  become 

438  NOTES 

of  Rydal  Mount  after  our  day.  Will  the  old  walls  and  steps  remain  in 
front  of  the  house  and  about  the  grounds,  or  will  they  be  swept  away 
with  all  the  beautiful  mosses  and  ferns  and  wild  Geraniums  and  other 
flowers  which  their  rude  construction  suffered  and  encouraged  to 
grow  among  them